


so grey the face of every mortal

by sometimeseffable



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Angst, Asexual Relationship, BAMF Aziraphale (Good Omens), Eventual Happy Ending, Fluff, Healing isn't linear, M/M, Off screen Torture, Post series finale, Protective!Crowley, Recovery, Slow Burn, Supportive Crowley (Good Omens), Whump, anathema and crowley are friends fight me, hurt!Aziraphale, previously raphael!Crowley, semi-forced cohabitation
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-06-21
Updated: 2020-05-01
Packaged: 2020-05-15 17:45:23
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 17
Words: 42,785
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19300657
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sometimeseffable/pseuds/sometimeseffable
Summary: "Now, some 6,000 years, several historical rescues, and one half-Apocalypse later, that promise tasted like ash in Crowley’s mouth. "It's been six months since Armaggeddidn't. Aziraphale has been in Hell for the last three weeks. Crowley is there to pick up the pieces.





	1. the fires of hell will take you

6,000 years ago, Crowley made a promise.

Back then, he was Crawley, newly fallen and burning with it. He’d never _meant_ to fall. Just asked questions. But since he had, and not really understanding _why_ , he’d jumped at the chance of causing a little trouble in Eden. After all, God had made clear Her stance on forming opinions. It was only fair Adam and Eve got the chance to think for themselves.

That’s what he told himself, anyhow.

He hadn’t expected the humans to be thrown out from the Garden. God was a bit tetchy, indeed. Demons most certainly did not feel guilt; the odd twist in his chest had to have been leftover from the fall. He was sure of it.

Then the angel caught his eyes. Pacing back and forth on the wall til the sun nearly set, before stopping and staring over the expansive desert, wings fluttering nervously. Crowley couldn’t  _not_ see what all that was about. His interest had been piqued even before the angel told him of sacrificing a divine sword for the humans who needed it more, but Crowley was floored by the angel’s compassion. There was too little compassion these days, on either side, and Hell’s Serpent was enamoured by the unflinching kindness in the angel’s heart.

Then, as the first storm rumbled closer and rain began to fall, the angel covered him with a wing without second thought. Aziraphale, despite being the Enemy, had shown _him_ of all things compassion as well. He had treated a demon as well as he had Earth’s first humans. Right then and there, Crowley promised himself should the angel ever need help, he would not hesitate to return the favor.

Now, some 6,000 years, several historical rescues, and one half-Apocalypse later, that promise tasted like ash in Crowley’s mouth.

He paced the narrow lift chamber that had brought him through the nine circles of Hell. As this wasn’t the usual report to head office, he’d used the old fashioned way of a portal sigil hidden on his living room floor instead of the escalator. He’d been hoping, in the months since Armageddon, never to use it again.

Wishful thinking.

Crowley stiffened as the lift doors slid open. Hastur was waiting for him. They'd never been on good terms, but after ruining the Apocalypse, trapping one's coworker in an antique ansaphone on-loop, and causing said coworked an unfortunate discorporation via unholy fire, tensions were bound to be a bit high. All demons had the emotional range of a dead fish, but Hastur looked even more aggravated to see him than usual.

Not that Crowley was in the mood for false pleasantries anyhow. 

“Where isss he?” Crowley snarled, advancing him like Hastur wasn’t a Duke of Hell leagues above his standing.

“You’re in no place to be making demands, Crowley,” the demon spit. The tone was bitter, not just mad. Interesting. “Follow me.”

There was something about the way Hastur slugged morosely through the words that set off alarm bells. A way that meant, _something’s wrong and you should be paying attention to it,_ except his too-human heart was thudding loud in his chest, and the overwhelming concern for Aziraphale made it so that anything else slipped from his mind like a bar of soap in the bath. 

They both were tense and cautiously silent as Hastur led him to the conference rooms. The ones that were only used for Dark Council board meetings and the annual All Hallow’s party. Beezlebub stood at the head of the long, rotting table. They wore the usual expression of bored indifference, although it seemed more forced. There was an extra agitated buzz to the flies around her vessel.

“Hello, traitor.”

“Beezlebub.” No _Lord,_ no greeting, no witty remarks. All bite, no bark. Crowley was here for business.

He took a cursory glance around. Vigilant of his surroundings, in case things went south. The room they were met in was standard, complete with jammed staplers and a coffee pot no one had washed out in decades. The signs proclaiming victory when the Great Beast rose had been replaced with motivational posters of cats with nooses that read _Hang in there!_

Besides Beezlebub and Hastur, only Dagon was there. So, no fully-convened Dark Council, and no cluster of lesser demons, either. Odd. Hell liked an audience.

Crowley did not so much saunter as stalk forwards when he approached the Lord of the Flies. “The angel,” he seethed, “Where is he.”

Beezlebub waved her hand; the wall behind her dissolved, spit out three figures, and reformed with oily grace. Crowley’s heart lurched.

Two demons had emerged from the wall, scowling, as demons were wont to do. Aziraphale hung shaking between them, held up by the elbows. His hair was matted and dirty, wide eyes set wider still in a grimy face. He was missing the coat he’d had for over 180 years, as well as the worn waistcoat, the pocket watch, and one shoe. The tartan bowtie sat crooked and half burned to ash around his neck. When he caught sight of Crowley, he attempted a smile, and made a noise that was neither angel nor demon; it sounded terribly human, tortured and small.

Hell was always a dark, cruel place, but Crowley saw red.

“Take him!”

One of the demons shoved Aziraphale forward. The angel stumbled right into his arms and sagged against him. Crowley bit his tongue to keep from spilling words of comfort, from asking _are you alright, angel, my angel, it’ll be okay, I’ve got you._ Instead, he glared at the Dukes of Hell with all the murderous rage a demon of his standing was capable of. Which happened to be quite a lot. The two minor demons shifted nervously on their hooves.

“If this is a trick,” he warned, tightening his grip on Aziraphale in preparation for a fight.

“No bloody tricks,” sneered Hastur, though there was notably less menace in his glare, “We don’t argue with orders from on high.”

“Come off it. You really expect me to believe Satan ordered him released?”

“Not...those orders.” Hastur glanced upwards. Crowley’s mouth dropped open a touch.

“You’re not saying... _that_ high…?”  
“Metatron demanded Gabriel to come down and retrieve him.” Beezlebub’s fists were clenched against their thigh, “The bloody coward zzzent _Michael_ with the mezzzage. Fucking git. Now get out of our zzzight.”

Crowley shifted Aziraphale into a more secure position in his arms. The angel whined pitifully, face halfway pressed to his neck. “How can I be sure this isn’t a set up?”

Beezlebub scowled. They licked their finger, and drew a sigil in the air that sizzled orange for a brief moment. A signature, not unlike one necessary for tax forms, that bound her to her word. “There will be no further interactionzzz between us, traitor. Get out before we change our mindzzz.”

Crowley tried to hide his surprise. One did not draw such a symbol lightly. In addition, he could see that, under all that furious bravado, Beezlebub was...nervous. Same as Hastur, and Dagon also, now that he was looking for it. Heaven didn’t often inspire anything in the lot of them that wasn’t a gag and a rude gesture.

Whatever happened with the Metatron that had convinced them to release an angel from their cruel, slimy grasps had Crowley doing mental gymnastics to figure out. He so desperately wanted to play it cool, to sneak information from them scrap by scrap. But Aziraphale was shaking beneath his fingertips, radiating pain and misery, and Crowley didn’t feel like sticking around to find out.

Priorities first.

He nodded and, still seething, said, “Right. Off we pop then.”

The Prince, Dukes, and various underthings of Hell watched them leave with no shortage of hate.

Once they were out of eyesight, safely tucked into the lift with the doors closed, Crowley hit the button for the top floor and pressed a quiet kiss to Aziraphale’s temple, a silent promise. Neither being made a sound. Despite all that had been said, there was no _real_ promise of their safety until they were out of Hell’s reach.

* * *

 

Red light blinked behind the buttons of nine floors, then held as the portal brought them back to Earth. There was a pressure, like they’d been put in bag being vacuumed shut. Suddenly they were deposited on the floor of Crowley’s apartment, just outside the demonic sigil kept under his carpet.

Aziraphale gasped, stumbled over to the couch, and vomited. Or at least, he would have, if there had been anything in his stomach. There was not, and so he retched. Choking on nothing but terror, awful and breathless, and Crowley was on him in a flash.

“Angel!” he breathed, holding Aziraphale by the shoulders as he shuddered. “Shh, you’re okay now. C’mon, let’s get a lie down, yeah?”

Crowley guided Aziraphale to the couch, where he collapsed and curled in on himself, knees to chest, face pressed gratefully into a pillow. His wings had spring into the mortal plane. Extreme exhaustion caused him to lose a grip on keeping them hidden. Crowley  _felt_ the absolute agony his friend his was in with each shuddering sob.

“What did they do to you?” he growled, “I’ll kill them, I swear I will. How _dare_ they - “

With a choked noise, Aziraphale shied away from him; Crowley’s anger had caused a surge in demonic energy that must have felt awful to the angel’s raw, traumatized senses. The demon dropped to his knees next to the couch in panic.

“Sorry, sorry,” Crowley babbled, voice forced into something soft. His fingers fluttered over the angel’s lower back in a desperate attempt at comfort, “Just me, angel, I won’t hurt you. You’re safe with me, you know that.”

“Hng...Crowley,” Aziraphale whimpered.

“That’s right, I’m here, angel. We’re in London. You’re _safe._ ”

“M-my wings,” Aziraphale gasped brokenly, “What - what color - oh, d-dear lord - wh-what color are my wings?”

Crowley had been trying very hard not to look at the mangled wings shedding feathers over his polished black floor. The ends were singed, their corporeal forms bloody where feathers had been ripped out, and they were the color of a gloomy day in Edinburough. No darker than a light drizzle, but nowhere near the usual snow-white Christmas morning they used to be. Crowley couldn’t tell if they were just dirty, or...worse. The one thing he could tell for certain was -

“They’re not black, angel,” Crowley soothed. He’d known exactly where Aziraphale's muddled train of thought was headed. “They’re not black. You haven’t Fallen.”

The last word was choked on with bitter regret.

Aziraphale’s eyes shut as he shuddered in palpable relief. “Oh, lord. Oh, thank Heaven…”

With that, he promptly passed out.

Crowley sat in silence and tried not to ignore the twist in his gut. While it stung that Aziraphale still equated Fallen with Unforgivable, there was nothing in Heaven or Hell that would ever make Crowley wish that on his friend. Aziraphale was just too...light. _Good._ Chaotically so, and a bit selfish at that, but Aziraphale was an angel through and through. Were he to Fall, it would destroy the very essence of his soul.

Even if he could be a right bastard somtimes. But he was a right bastard who needed tending to.

Crowley took stock of the wounded being before him. Aside from the wings, and the agonized way Aziraphale tensed even in sleep, there were no visible injuries on his vessel. The grime from various unpleasantries in Hell could be washed off in the bath, although that was something Crowley had no intention of doing until the angel was awake. Not without consent. If his suspicions were correct - and they tended to be when regarding Hell’s methods - there would need to be a lot of that.

_Fuck._

Crowley winced as he set to work. The wings really were a mess. To show another being one’s wings was a deeply personal matter, and so the demon had only glimped them a handful of times. It felt like a knife to his useless heart to see them so disfigured.

Gentle as he could, Crowley plucked out the dead and damaged feathers, which caused Aziraphale to whimper in his sleep. He ghosted a hand down the sensitive part of his back where the wings met, barely-there pressure to keep him grounded. Trying to miracle away the pain when the angel was so weak would cause their opposing energies to clash, and Crowley was loathe to cause him any more unnecessary hurt.

 _I’ll kill them_ , the demon thought as he smoothed disarrayed feathers and down back into place, _I’ll kill every last one of them. There won’t be any holy water left in the world when I’m through with ‘em._

Aziraphale’s shirt was caked in what he _hoped_ was mud, and though Crowley wanted it off, there was no way to do so with the angel’s wings in their corporeal form. He ran light fingers down their middle again, relieved as the furrow in Aziraphale’s brow relaxed a fraction.

Satisfied for now, and somewhat at a loss, Crowley perched on the sofa’s armrest, gazing unblinking at his angel. Aziraphale’s face was pinched, fingers curled where they lay by his head. The angel was not in the habit of sleep, ever. It was concerning that his body chose to shut down like so. Very...human of it.

“ ‘S gonna be okay. Don’t worry,” Crowley murmured. More for himself than anything else.

It struck him how out of his depth this was. How out of _anyone’s_ depth, and how helpful it would be to have an extra mind to bounce ideas off. Pity he hadn’t any friends. Least of all those with any magical know-how to potentially treat an injured angel.

Then it occurred to him that he did, in fact, have one.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Title taken from Queen's "The Prophet's Song"


	2. this flame that burns inside of me

In Crowley's office, an Oxfordshire area directory book had been left on the corner of his desk. Only two pages were marked. The first, Crowley had prank called a few times under the guise of being a telemarketer, both to keep tabs on their favorite former antichrist and to irk his rather simple (yet very human) father. 

Jasmine Cottage was the second, recently purchased from the landlord by Tadfield’s newest engaged couple. Since its occupants damnably slept with their mobiles off, that was the number Crowley punched into his ancient corded phone. 

It picked up after two rings. 

“Who is this?” Anathema demanded, sleep-deprived and self-righteous with it, “It’s three in the morning. How did you get this number?”

“Anathema. It’s me.”

She stopped dead. “Crowley? What’s going on?” From her end, Newt’s muffled voice asked a question. She shushed him.

“Listen, I need your help.” Crowley thought to the couch where the angel was passed out. “There’s been a...something bad's happened to Aziraphale. I don’t know how to help him myself. I need someone else magic with me.”

It was a bit of a stretch, but he had no where else to turn to. And now that all of Agnes’s prophecies had come to pass, Anathema had been making use of her heritage by studying other sorts of magic.  _ Proper  _ magic, not that horrid show stuff Aziraphale had tried on Adam and the Them last time they were near Oxford. Pepper had been less than pleased and thrown an ice lolly at his head. 

Anathema texted Crowley every so often with questions, so he knew she was at least aware of his and Aziraphale’s powers. And, deep down, he was a bit fond of the brash American with the spine of steel who helped them save the world, though he'd never admit it aloud. 

There was the sort of shuffling from their end that he guessed corresponded to blankets being thrown off and pants hurled at a boyfriend’s face.

“We’ll be right there. Soho?” Her voice was tight with concern. He could tell she was ready for a fight. Good woman, that book girl. 

“Mayfair. Be quick.”

“We will.”

* * *

 

Lucky for them, a parking space opened up in Mayfair right outside Crowley’s flat as if by miracle. Just wide enough for Dick Turpin ( _ Satan _ , but humans could be so stupid sometimes) to parallel park into. Crowley was still a demon, after all.

Aziraphale hadn’t woken since he lost consciousness. At first, Crowley had feared his vessel wouldn’t cope with the stress and that he’d discorporate any second. After an hour of watching his chest rise and fall in little starts, he could be somewhat assured Aziraphale wouldn’t just die on him. Not yet, anyway. 

Crowley was certainly not the most tactile being. Despite 6,000 millennia between them, he and Aziraphale hadn’t so much as held hands (unless one counted when Aziraphale got too drunk around the holidays and attempted to cuddle, which had been gently rebuffed out of respect for personal boundaries). And yet, he found himself unable to stop touching his injured friend for more time than it took to put the kettle on. Stroking his back, petting his hair, brushing cool fingers over a plump, grey cheek. Once, he even took a limp hand and knelt to press his lips to it. Then he thought better of it. Anything he wouldn’t do when Aziraphale was awake, he decided, was not what he wanted to try while unconcious. 

Because that would require  _ talking _ , which he’d been meaning to do for so long, and never quite got around to, and probably never would.

_ Coward,  _ his mind supplied. Which...yeah, that was fair. Centuries of being head over heels for your best friend and not saying a word didn’t quite inspire courage. Oh, he was almost certain those feelings were at least partly requited. But they’d had Heaven and Hell breathing down their necks for so long that being free to do whatever they wanted still took some getting used to. And Crowley had been in no rush. They had had all the time in the world, it'd seemed. 

Now, it looked like those half-plans to Talk would have to be pushed back until Aziraphale was healed. Crowley had no intention to put undue stress on his angel’s recovery. 

The buzzer for his flat rang. With a wave of his hand, Anathema and Newt found themselves in the outside hallway. Crowley heard Newt exclaim shrilly in surprise.

“Be right back, angel,” he murmured. Aziraphale did not so much as snuffle in his sleep.

He’d waved the door unlocked, and so was unsurprised to find the young couple waiting in the entrance. Anathema stood fully dressed in her odd mix of modern and mid-century clothes, hands clasped on a large carpetbag that looked like it could have belonged to Agnes herself. Her boyfriend looked even more rumpled than usual. His trousers were inside out.

“What’s - “

“In the sitting room,” Crowley cut her off, jerking his head towards the room. If Aziraphale was severely injured, and he didn’t know it, then they had precious little time, “He’s hurt, and I can’t miracle it away. Our powers would clash. Can you help?”

Anathema frowned and pushed her glasses back up her nose. “My training is occult, not divine. But I’ll do my best.”

They made to follow Crowley into the sitting room. The demon stopped Newt with his hand. 

“Just Anathema. You can watch telly in the kitchen.” He herded Anathema into the lounge and tossed back over his shoulder, “But  _ don’t  _ touch anything electronic!”

The air in the lounge was still as a tomb. Even the constant rumble of late-night London failed to penetrate its heavy atmosphere. Aziraphale lay in the same position, dirty and rumpled and still missing a shoe. 

Anathema sucked in a wondrous breath at the sight of Aziraphale’s wings. She knelt reverently by the side of the couch, hand outstretched, and glanced at Crowley.

“Can I touch?”

“Careful.”

Gentle hands stroked the down as lightly as Crowley would. Anathema’s eyebrows knit together. “They’re not…”

“Entirely corporeal, no,” the demon confirmed. “You’re seeing a physical snapshot of his ethereal form. The wings manifest like that in the vessel.”

Anathema frowned. Her eyes went unfocused, like she entertained the Them by reading their auras. How must an angel’s look to her, he wondered?

“He’s hurt. Badly.”

“I  _ know  _ that,” Crowley growled, “Why can’t I  _ see  _ it?”

“Because the injuries are not on this vessel. They are in the other plane. His ethereal form.” Anathema's face scrunched up; her hands skimmed up the section where the wings met, over Aziraphale’s neck, up to the top of his head. “These injuries feel...dark. Cruel. Hot? They feel like...burns.”

Crowley froze. Then he whipped his sunglasses off his face and hurled them at the wall, satisfied by the shatter and too enraged to care what humans might think of his eyes. Anathema barely blinked.

“ _ Bassstards, _ ” he hissed, “Hellfire.”

“Wouldn’t hellfire have killed him?” Smart girl.

Crowley’s hands clenched to keep them from trembling. “A lot of it, yeah. But not a few licks. Dunk me in holy water, I’ll dissolve. Flick a few drops, I’d sizzle like a cast iron pan, but I’d be okay.” He took a breath to quell the nausea in his empty stomach. “How extensive are they?”

“All over.”

Crowley cursed in a language that had been extinct for several thousand years now. One wing twitched; Aziraphale made a pitiful noise in the back of his throat, and Crowley’s hand immediately stroked through his hair to calm him.

Right. No getting upset in the flat. Not with any demonic intention. 

“Crowley…” Anathema hesitated a fraction, “What exactly happened?”

If he were being honest with himself, Crowley didn’t  _ know _ . Not before that afternoon. He had ideas, but everything on his end happened in a four hour blur of absolute dread and panic. Even now, his human form was still recovering from the shock of getting the call from Dagon, rushing to Hell in the throes of desperation. For Aziraphale, it had been much longer.

When he spoke, Crowley’s voice shook with untempered fury. “He was in Hell. I dunno specifics; I’m damned well going to find out.”

Anathema considered that, chin tilted up as if approving of the unspoken promise for revenge. Her spine snapped straight as she opened her kit bag, pulling out loads of junk that looked like it belonged in some kitschy crystal shop: herbs, a mortar and pestle, candles, some actual crystals. A different, hefty looking book with a sketch of flowers on the paper-bound cover.

“Right. I’ll see about making a poultice for the wings and a spell for healing energy. Maybe an elixir would help? I’m not much of a healer, but…” She trailed off, muttering to herself about rue and cinnamon or some such. 

Satisfied that Anathema would take good care of Aziraphale, and unable to do much more, Crowley stalked into the kitchen where Newt had (very carefully) clicked on an evening news program. At nearly 4 o’clock in the morning, he doubted the humans would be hungry, but banging around cupboards and pans made him feel better. Productive. Yelling at the plants would have to wait until Aziraphale was better. 

“Are you okay?”

Crowley slammed a mug on the counter. The handle cracked off; he miracled it back on. “Leave it, Pulsifer,” he growled. 

The human paused, jaw working open and shut in a debate on whether to say whatever inane thing was on his mind. “You know a few months ago, I had to call an ambulance to take Anathema to the hospital.”

Leant with all his weight against the marble island, Crowley didn’t respond. What little energy he had for snapping at Newt was fast draining, leaving him shakey. Ridiculous bodily reactions.

Newt continued.

“Burst appendix. We didn’t know that at the time, of course. Er. It was terrifying, though. She was in such awful pain, and I hadn’t the faintest clue how to help. Hospital said if we’d waited another hour or so…” He drew in a breath, glancing quickly between Crowley and the telly, “I-I’d have lost her. I know we haven’t been together that long, but...I dunno what I’d have done.”

Crowley sighed, head dropping to his chest before he turned to face Newt with his arms crossed. “There a point to this story?” 

“I’m saying it’s okay to be worried about Aziraphale,” Newt said with rather much more confidence than he felt, “Especially considering how long you’ve been...whatever you are.”

“Gosh, thanks for your  _ permission. _ ” But the words were heatless, and Newt knew it.  _ Damn _ , but Aziraphale made him soft in a way Crowley hadn’t decided how he felt about. 

He scrubbed a hand over his eyes. Distantly, he realized Newt hadn’t commented on them, which was...sort of what he needed. A surprise, considering it came from someone who drove a three-wheeled car. Oh, the duality of man.

Newt didn’t protest when Crowley snatched up the remote and flicked on  _ The Golden Girls _ , which didn’t play on any television station at this time of morning. They sat in uncomfortable silence until Anathema appeared in the doorway. She held two jars, carpetbag over her shoulder, dark circles pronounced beneath her eyes.

“I did everything I could think of from my research,” she explained, “From what I can tell, he’ll be alright. I made a poultice for the wings and mixed together an herbal elixir for him to take when he wakes up. Charge it with selenite by moonlight the night before.” As she spoke, she pointed to the jars. One looked like an average tea blend, the other like someone’s attempt at herb butter had gone frightfully wrong. Crowley scrunched his nose.

“Sounds very...pagan.”

Anathema shot him a look. “I’m a witch. I’m working with what I know. The basic principles should be the same, but we’re going to want to look into more strictly angelic remedies. Might have to get our hands on some holy water. I’ll do more research tomorrow, when we’re not using a wireless hotspot going ten miles above the speed limit.”

“Dick really can’t do more than fifteen above. It’s not good to push him.”

Crowley grimaced. “You’ll have to get the holy water. What’s all this ‘ _ we’ _ stuff?”

“You called. We’re here.” Anathema laid a hand on Crowley’s arm, who stiffened, “We’re friends. You don’t go through the end of the world with someone for nothing.”

She had the sense to withdraw before he  _ made  _ her, despite that Anathema was one of two people Crowley would let put a hand on his vessel. Well, one person and one ethereal being. “Besides, I owe Aziraphale from when you hit me with the Bentley.”

“ _ You  _ hit  _ me,  _ book girl,” Crowley said, but the tension was starting to ease from his shoulders. Trusting people wasn’t in his nature. Trusting  _ Aziraphale  _ had been hard enough, and even then the angel had shot down his attempts at vulnerability enough that he still hesitated sometimes. Anathema had no idea how lucky she was in being an exception. 

The young witch yawned, Newt not far behind. “We should get going. I’ll come by tomorrow to check in. Do you know a place nearby we could get a room?”

“Room’s just opened at the Washington Mayfair,” Crowley said with a demonic snap of his fingers, “Name’s under ‘Device’. Bill’s covered.”

They said their goodbyes. Crowley closed the door after them, leaning back against it with a heavy sigh. A quick check to the sitting room saw a more peacefully  slumbering Aziraphale. Some of the green-herbed poultice had been spread across the delicate wings. The waves of anguish, which Crowley could sense just as easily Aziraphale could do love, had reduced. They were more ripples in a pond instead of an overwhelming tsunami. Laying a hand on the angel’s forehead, Crowley thought it felt too hot, almost like what he imagined fever to be. But then, angels ran hotter than demons. They didn’t get fevers. Had to be the burns. 

The idea made white-hot rage flicker in his gut. 

He pushed it down for the sake of not upsetting Aziraphale, who was, for all intents and purposes, safe and beginning to mend in his flat. He wouldn’t stop being on edge until the angel woke up, but the sight left him content enough to wander back to the kitchen.

Crowley braced himself against the marble countertop and stared out the window. London twinkled below, his breath fogging the glass from the late January bite. 8.1 million people slumbered or worked or were just making their first cup of coffee on a brand new day. People they’d helped save going on six months past, at their price of their own safety. All of humanity weighed against an eternity of good or evil, of never seeing Aziraphale again one way or another. In the end, it hadn’t been a fair choice. Not by a long shot.

He’d only hoped they’d have more time before it all went tits up. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm so floored by the overwhelming response to this fic! Thank you all so much <3  
> Find me on [tumblr](https://sometimeseffable.tumblr.com/) !


	3. the night comes down

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> WARNING for brief mentions of torture

Aziraphale woke all at once with his heart in his throat and eyes closed to hide it.

It was a learned reaction after the first few - days? Months?  _ Centuries?  _ \- of torture. Angels didn’t sleep, but even angelic vessels had limits, and angels could certainly fall unconscious when their vessel’s pain receptors short circuited. To awaken without giving indication meant a few more moment’s reprieve before it all started again, to listen to his surroundings and take stock of what was happening, to form some plan to prepare himself.

Hell was loud; he’d learned that during Crowley’s trial. There was the constant shuffle and rumble of demons passing, talking with voices like nails down a chalkboard, all overlaid with the screams of the more unfortunate of Hell’s denizens. 

So, upon awakening with his eyes still closed, Aziraphale took the unnerving silence to mean that he was dead.

Upon further consideration, he realized this was ridiculous, as death for him meant not existing entirely.

Opening his eyes revealed a wide expanse of grey marble, and Aziraphale felt a lick of fear that it was no longer Hell that had him, but Heaven. 

Also ridiculous. Heaven would never sully their walls with a color darker than eggshell white. They also wouldn’t, upon twitching his wrists to test nonexistent binds, leave him unmanacled. Nor lying on a not-very-comfortable couch with his face in a pillow that smelled very,  _ very  _ familiar - of woodsmoke and fine leather and cinnamon, of all things.

Aziraphale bolted upright to confirm that, indeed, this was  _ Crowley’s  _ flat. The wash of relief almost made him sick. He scrambled off the couch - never mind the white-hot agony that flashed through his  _ everything  _ \- when the idea occurred to him that this could be another trick. Hell was powerful; Hell knew exactly how to get his guard down. It wouldn’t be the first time they’d used Crowley as a tool in their arsenal of torture. 

His mind raced through various possibilities. The only time he’d seen the inside of Crowley’s flat had been late one night before marching off to their almost-certain doom in each other’s forms. It wouldn’t be hard to recreate such an empty place. Hadn’t been hard at all for a demon to shift itself into Crowley’s form either. 

So. No guarantees. 

Swallowing hard, Aziraphale picked up a hefty-looking vase on the side table and held it upside down as he slowly approached the kitchen. He shivered, too cold and too hot all at once, blood pounding in his ears. Socked feet were silent on cool marble. Good. That would at least give him an edge if he had to go down fighting. 

He pushed open the door without so much as a creak. The tense line of maybe-not-Crowley’s back faced him as the demon stared pensively out the window. Weak golden light from the new dawn turned his hair into molten copper, so beautiful that for a moment that Aziraphale’s hazed mind forgot this could be a trick. He sucked in a breath.

Of course, his traitorous vessel chose  _ then  _ to be struck with a ripple of pain emanating from his ribs. Aziraphale grunted as he collapsed on the doorframe, vase slipping from his grasp and shattering.

  
“Aziraphale!” Crowley whirled immediately and crossed the room to steady him with a light touch. “Sit down, you idiot, else you’ll make yourself sick. The _hell_ were you doing with that vase?”

Aziraphale blinked as the words registered. _ Idiot.  _ Crowley just insulted him.

_ You’re so clever! How can someone as clever as you be  _ so  _ stupid? _

Shapeshifter or not, the demons would never speak to him like that when playing Crowley. Hell was under the impression that he and Crowley were in an intimate relationship together; they used that often, saying such lovely and awful things to get under his skin. Hell could be wily and malicious, but never could they nail that mocking-yet-concerned tone, the anger as well as worry in beautiful gold depths, the smell of smoke and cinnamon and chilis and just a  _ hint  _ of sulfur, and -

_ Dear lord,  _ Crowley was  _ here.  _

A noise escaped him that was a definite yet failed attempt at the demon’s name, and golden eyes softened in a way he hadn’t known they could. 

"Hey, now, let’s sit back down, yeah?"

The demon kept his hands on him as Aziraphale sat dazedly in one of the kitchen chairs. His dark glasses were off, revealing those beautiful golden eyes Aziraphale was so fond of, concern in their depths.

There were any number of things he wanted to say -  _ how did we get here, how did I escape, did you rescue me, will they be back, is this real, I love you, please never leave me again -  _ only then he caught a whiff of his shirt, wrinkled his nose, and what came out was, “Filthy.”

Relieved, Crowley smiled. He picked a piece of crusted mud off of his (completely ruined) trousers and flicked it away with forced levity. “How ‘bout I run you a bath and wash these while you clean up? Sound okay? No offense, angel, but you need it.”

Of course he would go for humor. Aziraphale tried to laugh at the  _ absurdity  _ of Crowley acting like this was normal, but the sound caught in his throat and ended up a choked sob. Then another, and another, and suddenly Aziraphale didn’t seem to be breathing right as he started crying. Pure relief and joy at being  _ free  _ suffused through overwhelming pain and terror. His vessel couldn’t cope with the onslaught of human emotions.

Crowley looked stricken. Before it registered, Aziraphale's head was being pressed into a soft shoulder. Crowley’s arms came around him as the dam burst in his chest, and the demon held him as he sobbed. 

Angels didn’t sleep; nor did they cry. Aziraphale couldn’t remember shedding more than a few tears at some worldly atrocity before. Now, it seemed, his vessel was failing him in the most degrading ways. How embarrassing. 

Crowley was speaking into his hair. “Shh, it’s okay. ‘S all fine, angel, let it out.”

“S-sorry,” Aziraphale sniffed. He realized that particularly terrible human function had probably made a mess of Crowley’s designer jacket. The demon shook his head.

“Don’t worry about it.”

He let Aziraphale pull away when he was ready and moved to the kettle to give him room. The water found itself boiling a few cups of chamomile with muted surprise. 

“I-I’m af-fraid I’m not quite s-sure what’s happened,” Aziraphale stuttered out. Shock, probably. His throat was rough and scratchy from God knew how long of endless screaming -  _ don’t think about it, don’t -  _

Crowley poured out the tea and set the kettle down with a sharp  _ click.  _ “You were in Hell.” There was a slight halt in the demon’s voice that meant he was trying very hard not to hiss.

“Y-yes, I’m aw-ware. You s-saved me?” 

“Not entirely.” Honey was spooned into the cup after the splash of milk. He didn't take honey. At Aziraphale’s eyebrow raise, Crowley explained, “For your throat. Human stuff.  Got to help, I’d imagine. Can’t hurt.”

Aziraphale nodded and took the mug gratefully. Though the tender skin of his hands protested its heat, the familiar action helped to ground him.

“Got a call from Dagon yesterday,” Crowley continued, fussing with the rows of mugs. He was agitated, then. “Said I was missing something, I needed to come down and collect immediately. I’d thought you were still miracleing in America the whole time. I didn’t  _ know…” _

He closed the cabinet doors with a short, frustrated breath and sat across the breakfast bar from him. Aziraphale had never more keenly felt such a small distance between them. 

“Anyway. Opened a portal as soon as I hung up, got down there, and they just...handed you over. No fight. Said they got orders from  _ Metatron  _ to release you. I haven’t got the faintest clue what Heaven’s playing at, disrupting the non-interaction agreement like that.”

Mug halfway to his lifts, Aziraphale froze. Heaven ordered him released.

_ Heaven. _

The mug shattered in his grip. Crowley yelped, and Aziraphale looked down, puzzled at the blood dripping from his hand. Oh dear. Oh, what a mess. A cool hand passed over it, miracleing away the sharp clay sharps and healing torn skin. 

_ Flames licked at his ethereal being, claws and fangs ripping his corporeal form, snarling wicked-point teeth as he screamed, cried, begged the Almighty for mercy. Violet eyes crinkled with glee as he was dragged down, down, down... _

_ “We’ll make sure you Fall, pretty thing,” the black-eyed demon grinned, “Special treat. Courtesy of those wank-wings Upstairs.”  _

“Aziraphale.” He looked up; Crowley was halfway across the table, hand around his wrist, anxiously watching him. “What’s wrong?”

_ His own voice crying out, injected with pure terror. “Gabriel, please!” _

“Heaven,” Aziraphale croaked. Swallowed hard and looked Crowley dead in the eye. “Heaven p-punished me by handing me over to H-Hell.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter title from Queen's "The Night Comes Down".


	4. the same moon shines...

_ Three weeks ago... _

* * *

 

The interior of the bookshop glowed a muted amber when Aziraphale hopped off the bus from the airport. He wasn’t a fan of overusing his angelic powers to miracle all the way over to America, and his wings had got tired on the flight back, so he’d hitched a ride on a passing passenger plane for a lift home. The captain smiled at him when he told her what a lovely job she did flying the plane on his way out. Her wife was expecting their first born, and she had just finished paying off college debts. How wonderful.

Crowley had clucked his tongue and rolled his eyes at him when he said he was popping over to America for a few miracles. Although his friend had stopped any hellish work other than whatever tickled his demonic fancy, Aziraphale felt a calling to continue spreading light across the world. Especially now that his miracles didn’t have to be counterbalanced by Crowley’s temptations. Nothing went so far as to tip the scales inexorably more towards good, mind, but it was the thought that counted.

Plus, America was in dreadful need of his help.

“I’ll only be gone a week,” he’d assured Crowley, who huffed and snapped a copy of the Rolling Stones over his eyes. Some long-buried part of him had wanted to press a kiss to his head as he left the bookshop, apologize for the time they wouldn’t spend together. But he shook it off. It hadn’t been the right time. Perhaps, he’d thought, when he returned they could have a...proper conversation. They had all the time they wanted now.

Aziraphale straightened collar and cuffs as the bus rolled away, pleased as a peach (he’d picked up the phrase in Georgia) to be back in Soho. Spreading miracles in the world was all well and good, but the bookstore was his own personal heaven. Better than Heaven, in fact. Crammed full of well loved tomes in perfect disarray, lit by soft lamps and candlelight, with comfortable, tasteless furniture strewn about and no rhyme or reason to be seen. None of the harsh, clean angles or surgical fluorescents of Heaven. Not to mention no paperwork either.

Which was why, when walking past the room with a sigil hidden under the carpet, the burning ethereal glow of divinity caught his eye. The sigil had been lit; not a moment later, a bell tingled faintly in the distance. 

_ Bugger.  _

“Hello, Aziraphale.”

He whipped around. Gabriel, flanked by Uriel and Sandalphon, stood just on the other side of the sigil. He was smiling a smile rather like a dentist when telling one they needed a new filling. That is to say, entirely fake and hiding a certain menace behind it. 

“Gabriel! Uriel, Sandalphon - what a surprise, although I dare not suggest a welcome one.” Though his stomach fluttered nervously as it always did when addressing the Archangels, Aziraphale had retained none of the stutter since their last encounter. Facing off with the Dukes of Hell as Crowley gave one a smattering of confidence, after all. That, and he had practiced telling them off in the mirror before. 

“That’s not a very nice thing to say,” Uriel mock-pouted.

Aziraphale gave her a tight-lipped smile and scrunched his nose like he had as Crowley. “Neither is setting your coworker ablaze. I feel we’ve moved passed conventions of politeness.”

“Funny you mention that,” Gabriel said, launching into his ‘go-get-em-champ’-lecture voice, “See, we’ve been thinking about how our last...meeting...ended. Completely unfair of us to try you as a demon, we see that now. But, well. Considering certain...abilities of yours that have come to light, we thought we might double check the verdict.”

“Well, clearly, I’m not a demon.” He spread his hands in front of his (frumpy, Crowley called it) non-demonic form.

“Not yet.”

A chill ran down Aziraphale’s spine at the firm, certain way Uriel said that. Her gold-painted lips were twisted up in the slightest smirk. In fact, all three Archangels had a smug air about them that set his teeth on edge. Aziraphale had the vaguest feeling he was about to be smote by lightning.

“What do you mean?”

“What we mean is - oh, shoot, what’s the expression Michael used?”

“If you like hellfire so much - “ Sandalphon started smugly.

Gabriel snapped his fingers and interrupted. “Right! If you love hellfire so much, why don’t you live there?”

With dawning horror, Aziraphale felt dark energy burst behind him as a portal opened. He didn’t have time to turn around before arms and gnats wrapped around him with a stench like Golden Square in 1854.

“No!” he shouted, struggling against the cackling demon. His feet began to sink into the carpeting. “You can’t! I’m not a demon, I swear! _It was a trick!_ _Gabriel,_ _please!_ ”

Gabriel said nothing; none of them did. They just smiled with an angelic sort of malice as the ground above him sealed shut.

And then Aziraphale was dragged to hell.

* * *

_ Present... _

* * *

 

 

Cool water lapped at his shins as Aziraphale sat in the deep clawfoot tub, knees drawn to his chest, staring unfocused at the faucet. Large shower doors of smokey blue glass afforded some privacy without inspiring bouts of claustrophobia. One finger trailed along the water’s surface, the movement reminding him that he was, in fact, safe and partially whole in Crowley’s flat. That whatever happened was behind him now.

For the most part.

 After helping him limp to the bathroom, Crowley had filled the tub, tested the water, and stayed long enough to miracle away the first round of sludge, crusted blood, and other remaining filth that lingered on his skin from the tub. He dared not attempt to miracle anything more than the minor wounds of his hand for fear of their polarized energies harming him in some way. Aziraphale understood.

Crowley had gone out for a drive after Aziraphale assured him he didn’t need him to stay in the flat while he cleaned up. He’d been understandably upset at Aziraphale’s revelation, so much so that his ears had started smoking in an effort to contain it. His restraint had been appreciated, for the flash of anger he sensed from the demon caused him to cringe away.

Aziraphale, at least, had had time to come to terms with it. The shock written plain across Crowley’s face brought back some of the pain, but after what he learned had been three weeks spent in Hell, the agonized confusion had faded into numb acceptance. 

Oh, but it had  _ hurt _ . It hurt far worse than he ever imagined, worse than being cut off from Heaven in the first place, from losing the connection to Her eternal light. That the Archangels  _ hated  _ him enough to condemn him to eternal suffering, to hand him over to the Opposition with sick glee, tore at his soul. For there was one reason and one reason only he could imagine they would do so.

Heaven had intended to make him Fall.

Aziraphale shuddered, arms wrapping tight around himself in an empty attempt at comfort. Heaven didn’t just want him dead; they wanted the very essence of his being twisted into something unrecognizable, tortured and miserable beyond forgiveness. He’d known he wasn’t the pinnacle of celestial standard, but to suggest he was less than angelic? It left him despondent.

_ Pathetic principality...stupid, naive little thing...what should we do with you, hm? _

Ragged-nailed hands clenched and dug little half-moons into sensitive palms. Once, he’d considered them friends, companions. Allies in the light of the Almighty’s love.

_ You think God will hear your pleas? Pathetic. _

Well. The Archangels had certainly made their opinions clear. And since they were the messenger’s of God’s intention, Aziraphale had an idea of where he stood in the Great Plan. It was almost a pity he hadn’t truly Fallen. Demons, at least, held a purpose one way or another.

Aziraphale stood abruptly and wobbled as his head spun. No use wallowing in his own self-pity. He slid back the glass doors and toweled off his sexless human form quickly. There was a small part of him that was loathe to fan out his wings, though he had a vague recollection of being assured they had not gone black and atrophied with rot.

Even so, the fear of what he would find constricted his throat in a painful reminder.  _ You are not ready; you are afraid. Weak,  _ he scolded himself.

‘Lean, mean fighting machine’ indeed.

Aziraphale turned toward the expansive vanity countertop, and paused. At some point, Crowley had snuck in and left a pile of clothes on the closed toilet seat. A soft white undershirt, beige pinstripe housecoat, plain underpants, and blue tartan - _ tartan - _ pajama trousers. The pants still had a Tesco's label stuck to the front.

“You dear, thoughtful demon,” he murmured aloud with the ghost of a smile. Aziraphale slipped into them with a sharp twinge; both forms, corporeal and ethereal, still ached abominably. Less so thanks to Anathema’s salve, but he supposed one couldn’t expect to mend in a heartbeat. The clothes were soft, and just the right amount of frumpiness now that he was sans-overcoat. The robe did its best.

Crowley had, bless him, returned from terrorizing the streets of London by the time Aziraphale shuffled back into the living room. A slick model of the latest mobile was his most recent victim as he flicked at the screen in annoyance. Aziraphale lingered in the doorway. Aside from that one night after the end of the world, he’d never simply existed in Crowley’s flat before. This was uncharted territory.

As it was the demon’s personal space, he would follow whatever precedent was set. However, though he knew Crowley wasn’t the most tactile being - often shoved him off when Aziraphale got a bit too sauced and attempted to  _ cuddle _ \- the angel felt a sharp craving for physical comfort. To be close to the one person who truly mattered, shut his eyes, and pretend everything was alright once more.

So he did just that. Albeit, there was more initial hesitation than he’d like. Hesitation that quickly melted when Crowley lifted an arm immediately for him to curl up close to his side. Feet tucked up next to him on the couch, Aziraphale pressed his face against soft fabric and inhaled that comforting, spicy scent. Crowley’s internal body temperature was much cooler than his (he had been a serpent, after all) which helped to soothe the heat of the hellfire burns.

They sat there for a few moments, neither saying a word, privately relishing the knowledge the other was safe next to them. Everything unsaid between them seemed to float away, unbothered.

“You’ll be staying here for a while, then,” the demon broke the silence, casual as he would suggest curry for lunch, “Only if you want, ‘course, but I think you’d feel safer than in the bookshop with a portal to Upstairs in it?”

_ You can stay at my place. If you like.  _

“I’d like that,” Aziraphale mumbled against his shoulder, “Thank you, my dear.”

“Yeah, well, you know what they say.  _ Domus mihi est domus tibi _ and all that.”

The slight upturn of Aziraphale’s lips wasn’t quite as joyful as usual, but it was indeed amused, if forced. “Is that how the saying goes?”

“Oh, yeah, ‘course. Would I lie to you?”

Aziraphale chuckled softly with the air of someone who knew they were being had. “No, I suppose you wouldn’t.”

Exhaustion tugged at his weary mind; it seemed his body needed a lot more of that sleep business to mend than he’d expected. An unfortunate necessity. 

Crowley’s thumb rubbed circles against his collarbone. Goodness, but he hadn’t known the demon had it in him to be so soothing. “Rest. You need it. I’ll stay up, be here when you wake up.” 

“Don’t you need sleep too?”

He shrugged the arm not wound around Aziraphale. “Not for a few days. Now shush.”

Crowley lifted the mobile in his free hand and started jabbing away again with a thumb. Demons were not known to emanate an air of peace, yet Aziraphale felt comforted by Crowley’s presence all the same. His demon was no ordinary one. Content as possible under the circumstances, he closed his eyes, and let the pain ebb away as sleep dragged him under. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 3 things:  
> 1\. Someone suggested the idea of fan art for this, so I just wanted to put it out there that if any of you lovely people wanted to draw something from this fic you are MORE THAN WELCOME!  
> 2\. I’m 100% open to doing prompts as well. Message me on [tumblr](http://paleolea.tumblr.com/) if you have any for me!  
> 3\. As always, thank you for your wonderful comments! They really are the driving force behind so much of the energy I get to put into this fic. I don’t always know how to respond to every comment, so please know if I don’t respond I still greatly appreciated it :)


	5. ...the same wind blows

_Yesterday..._

* * *

 

Aziraphale had been gone for four weeks now, and Crowley was  _bored_.

He sighed dramatically, draped over the ornate office chair with his head tilted back, unblinking at the ceiling. It’d been months since Armagedidn’t, and while they no longer reported to their respective head offices, Aziraphale liked to go around spreading minor miracles every so often. 

“I may be out of Heaven’s graces, but I am still an angel, my dear,” he’d said when Crowley complained about his leaving. Which, sure, the demon could understand - he still caused a little havoc now and again. Though he hadn’t done anything _really_ evil in centuries, whereas Aziraphale was known to pull the big guns out every so often (which ended up in Crowley working minor temptation overtime to balance it out).

A low groan escaped his chest. Since averting the Apocalypse, what time wasn’t spent spreading low-grade evil around London meant hanging around the bookshop. Coming so close to death so many times in one week - not to mention believing Aziraphale dead instead of merely discorporated, which fucked him over more than he’d care to admit - left him with an odd anxiety to stick close to the angel whenever possible. 

Therefore, when the phone rang, Crowley almost snatched it up on the first ring in a desperate bid to talk to Aziraphale before he paused. Demonic energy radiated from the receiver; Crowley knew that, whoever it was, it wasn’t Aziraphale. And it wasn’t good. 

He snatched up the receiver with more casual annoyance than he felt. “What part of ‘I’m to be left alone’ don’t you understand?”

“YOU ARE MISSING SOMETHING.”

Crowley’s blood, entirely useless to a demon, ran cold. _Shit_.

When Aziraphale said he’d only be a week, he’d expected the angel to lose track of time dithering over moral quandaries. The extra three weeks had been dismissed without second thought. _Idiot._

“Where is he?” he demanded, low and threatening.

“IN HELL.”

Fuck. _Fuck._

“Lisssten to me carefully,” Crowley hissed, feeling himself starting to lose control, “I’m coming down there. And if you’ve harmed a _sssingle feather -_ “

“YOUR EMPTY THREATS MEAN NOTHING. YOU MUST TAKE HIM BACK NOW.” There was something off about Dagon’s voice. Demons were not shaken, but this came pretty damn close. “COME GET THE ANGEL IMMEDIATELY.”

Crowley paused, having his thoughts come to a grinding halt. “You... _want_ me to come get him?”

“YES. NOW. WE’LL BE WAITING.” Dagon cut the line. Crowley didn’t spare a thought for confusion. Instead, he leapt to his feet and stalked into the living room. It didn’t matter much, anyway. Hell had his angel, was probably using him as bait to lure Crowley back into their clutches and kill them both, and he had no intention of letting that happen. 

Ripping up the plush black carpet by the couch revealed a blood red sigil painted on the floor. The sight of it made his skin crawl, and not in the good, spooky way.

Crowley removed five black candles from the trunk under the television set and place them on the corners. They lit with a snap of his fingers, flickering a ghostly pale blue like a gas stovetop. He muttered a few words in a garbled and ancient tongue. 

Flames sprung up in the spaces between candles. The painted lines glowed like hellfire. Crowley’s stomach turned. Were Aziraphale here, he might have teased the demon for being _afraid._ Made some reassuring comment about an untimely demise that really wasn’t reassuring at all, took his hand before jumping into Hell and said something like, _‘together, then?’._

But his angel wasn’t here, next to him, his best friend standing sure against all of Heaven and Hell.

_Aziraphale is in Hell. He needs you._

“I’m coming, angel,” Crowley breathed, before leaping into the flames. 

* * *

_Present..._

* * *

 

 In 1932 at the Brooklands motor racing circuit, the _Monoposto,_ a racecar developed from the Bentley 4 ½ liter, broke a speed record for going over 200 kilometers per hour. 

Just outside the outskirts of London, a 1926 non-racing car model Bentley surpassed that speed with no shortage of magic and a hint of imagination. Right now, Crowley ripped through deserted backroads somewhere near Surrey. London was far too crowded; he needed to be alone. And, as much as he enjoyed frightening the angel with the possibility of mowing down pedestrians, he’d like to keep the Bentley’s incident counter at a solid _one._ Ta, Anathema.

It wasn’t often he let the windows down while he drove, but the night was the sort of crystal-clear cold that proceeded snowstorms, and the masochist in him needed that bite of pain to keep him grounded.

Crowley’s grip tightened on the wheel as he banked a hard left. He’d been loathe to leave Aziraphale alone in his flat while the angel cleaned up. It’d been broken into by demons before (no matter how truly incompetent they’d been) and, even if Beezlebub gave her word not to pay retribution, Heaven had just proven itself to be a bigger threat than he’d ever anticipated. They needed to be top of their game, and just locking the front door wasn’t going to be enough.

 But, on the other hand, he’d needed to be away from Aziraphale in order to get all this furious hate out of his system. Otherwise, he feared he might explode. 

Pity, that.

There was only one other time Crowley could remember wanting to rip Gabriel’s stupid fucking head off his well-muscled shoulders as much as he did now, and that had been in Heaven in Aziraphale’s corporation. The pure, uncomplicated, visceral _rage_ he felt that Aziraphale’s superiors would dispose of him so cold and heartlessly had nearly blown his cover. Hell had been certain to destroy him, given him a mock trial and everything, but he’d had a slight faith in Heaven to do the right thing. Not summary execution by voluntary immolation. Oh, and Crowley had taken all too much pleasure in scaring the daylights out of them.

And now…

Smoke rose from pale hands clenched on the steering wheel. Now there was a tortured angel in his flat who’d been through Hell and back, who stuttered every other word and flinched at loud noises, who hadn’t even the strength to miracle away the grime from his skin, and it boiled his blood. Literally.

He skidded to a sudden halt at the edge of a lake and hissed out a breath. Under his glasses, he was sure the sclera had been overtaken by serpentine yellow. Stupid bloody emotions making him lose his cool. Rage, sure, that was warranted. Hate? Absolutely, demons thrived off that. But there was more to his (Aziraphale would call it a _snit_ ) outburst than Crowley wanted to think about.

Before all this utter _bullshit_ , he’d hoped…well. He’d wanted to take it slow, obviously. Wine and dine, a walk in the park, some utterly dull museums where Aziraphale could be distracted while he caused a minor ruckus. Break down the walls built from the fear of being caught _fraternizing_ brick by brick until they felt…safe. Safe enough to expand on whatever they were, anyway. Usual courtship nonsense.

Except now they knew Heaven had intended to make him Fall, and Crowley was stuck. Thing about Falling was one often had to let themselves turn away from Her light. He’d done so, however briefly, questioning the world, and in that moment had become vulnerable to the darkness.

To saunter vaguely downward was one thing, but to tempt one into disgrace was completely another. And there wasn’t a doubt in his mind that, should Aziraphale give in to what had been between them for so long, Heaven would get what it so desperately wanted.

Aziraphale would fall. Crowley would be at fault. How, therefore, could he justify acting on those feelings? Letting his angel’s Grace be sullied by someone who had been deemed before God herself to be Unforgivable?

_Earnest blue eyes crinkled, hurt. “I forgive you.”_

But if he was the cause of Aziraphale’s Fall, how could he ever forgive himself?

No. Better to bury all that lovesick noise deep than to cause irreparable harm. After all, wasn’t that what he’d been doing for 6,000 years? A few more millennia wouldn’t kill him.

“Just can’t give us a break, can you?” Crowley muttered, shooting a glance up at the pitch sky. God, as usual, did not respond.

Right then. Crowley whipped the wheel back around and shot off toward London. No use in sulking when there was an angel at home who needed him.

* * *

 

Dawn had long since given way to a nippy morning when Crowley unlocked the door to his flat, hair windswept beyond all help. First thing he did was poke his head into the bathroom. Aziraphale had his head tipped back into the water, curls scrubbed back to their dove-white glory, eyes closed. His brow was crinkled still, but less so. Not so much at peace as one small step closer.

With an unbidden smile, Crowley snuck in and silently deposited the clothes he’d nicked from Tesco on the way back. It was probably best to leave the pace and direction of the next few hours at Aziraphale’s leisure, so the demon set about menial house chores to keep busy until his angel was ready.

He’d scooped up the ragged pile of clothes left on the bathroom floor on his way out, and managed to miracle them clean. The blue button down and tan trousers looked like they’d seen better days, but they were at least whole again and accounted for, unlike the rest of Aziraphale’s usual wardrobe. _That_ particular frustration Crowley took out on his plants, whispering severely in between generous spritzes of nutrient water.

“We will be having a guest with us for a while,” he hissed in a voice the plants had never heard before – fierce, yet oddly soft, “I expect you all on your very best behavior. No _spots_ , no _wilting_ , no _yellow_ of _any kind!_ You will all be in tip top condition for Aziraphale, understood?”

The plants trembled in response, unsure whether the yelling or the whisper-shouting was worse.

Satisfied, Crowley went back to the sitting room and collapsed on the couch just as the shower doors rattled open in the bathroom. He poked around on his mobile, scrolling through social media (one of his best ideas) and responding to Anathema’s text that all was as well as could be given the circumstances. They sent a few messages back and forth on when she could drop by before heading back to Tadfield.

A few minutes later, Crowley heard the bathroom door open and sensed Aziraphale hovering at the edge of his periphery. The angel seemed unsure whether to approach him. For a moment, he feared being in a demonic presence was too much for his friend, that his black aura would be overwhelming, too dark and too painful a reminder to withstand. Only fear had a specific sort of sharp tang to it, like a tub of yogurt gone a few weeks bad, and what he sensed didn’t taste like that. More gently bitter, like kale. More like…longing?

_Ah._

Silently, the demon lifted an arm and waited for Aziraphale to scuttle over and burrow himself in his side. Made sense. Beings of love made to withstand unimaginable hate were bound to have some issues. Regardless of any personal promises made, if Aziraphale needed physical comfort in this moment, who was he to deny him that? Crowley normally tried not to give in to the temptation to touch the angel for fear he wouldn’t be able to stop, but this could be an exception.

Soft curls tickled his nose, and Crowley allowed himself a moment to enjoy the subtle scent of old paper, cocoa, and ozone that was so distinctly divine overlaid by his own expensive shampoo. Whereas most demons ran cold like a corpse, Crowley was cold in that he never outgrew the poikilothermic temperature regulation of once being a snake, and so Aziraphale’s warmth felt heavenly against his skin. 

It was a relief to hear Aziraphale felt comfortable enough to stay in his flat for the foreseeable future; the tight knot of anxiety in Crowley’s chest eased now that he knew he’d be able to keep an eye on him, protect him if it came to that. No one’d get to his best friend without one Hell of a fight first.

Crowley waited as his angel’s breathing evened out, form bleeding tension until he was boneless under his arm, which pulled him just that bit closer. He dropped a quiet kiss into those wonderful curls, a promise he couldn’t yet voice aloud.

Silently, he began plotting. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> What's UP ya girl has been pretty Sick since Monday so sorry for the delay! This really threw a wrench in my plans since I'm starting a nanowrimo project tomorrow :/ promise I'll have more up soon though
> 
> Title from this and last chapter are both from Teo Torriate (Let Us Cling Together)


	6. and the night followed day

Dick Turpin pulled into the driveway of Jasmine cottage a little after sunset. Its occupants spent a muddled hour-long drive in silence, the driver’s hand slotted gingerly between the passenger’s fingers. Anathema rolled her head to look at her fiancé as he parked, humming along to whatever inane pop music played through the speakers.

Newt had only been in her life for six months now, but Anathema couldn’t imagine life any other way. Having been certain in Agnes’s prophecies all her life, she hadn’t batted an eye when it was implied he’d be the man she married. True, he hadn’t been entirely what she’d been expecting. Certainly not so…quirky. Which now she found endearing, of course, but the sense of humor that birthed Dick Turpin had taken her a bit by surprise.

What she _truly_ hadn’t been prepared for was how well-suited they actually were. Descendants didn’t get to choose their lives; in her family, it had led to more than a few unhappy marriages, business ventures, and, on one occasion, a congressional campaign. Suffice to say Anathema was thrilled when she figured out she actually…well… _loved_ her intended.

“How’s chicken for dinner?” Newt asked. He pulled the shopping they’d picked up on their way out of London from the backseat and made toward the house.

Anathema’s stomach rumbled with glee. Newt might be the worst computer engineer in the world, and only a slightly better witchfinder private, but what he lacked in job fluency he made up for tenfold in the kitchen.

“Sounds great. Need any help?” Not that Anathema could do more than char toast, mind, but the sentiment would be appreciated.

Newt smiled as he nudged open the door with his foot. “I think I got it handled. Besides, you’ve got work to do for Crowley. I shan’t get in the way of that.”

Warmth bloomed in her chest. Anyone else might have questioned her taking on freelance witchcraft studies from a demon to help their mutual angel friend, but Newt didn’t bat an eye. Just rolled with the punches. One of the many things Anathema loved about him.

The witch pressed a kiss to his cheek as she passed on the way to her study, sinking into her desk chair with a tired sigh.

Anathema stared at her collection of occult books for a few minutes, jostling her leg and biting her cheek. She stood, grabbed one entitled _Summonings for Beginners_ off the shelf, flipped it open, and promptly closed it. Rinse and repeat through two more ancient tomes, and Anathema groaned as she collapsed back into the chair.

This would do no good. Her focus was off; she’d never get anywhere with her mind so loudly interrupting, despite that it had good reason to. It kept wandering back to Mayfair a few hours ago, once Aziraphale had awoken.

_“Can I ask to see your wings?” she murmured, having run through a general checklist of ailments._

_Aziraphale tensed under her hand, laid feather-soft against the middle of his back, and nodded. The wings sprung into the mortal plane with a shower of crusted poultice, which had yet to be cleaned off from her last visit. This time, upon closer inspection, Anathema noticed something off in the form of the upper curve. She was no expert on bird anatomy, but the large bones along the top seemed…deformed. Like they’d been broken and hadn’t healed properly._

_She shot a glance to where Crowley was leaning tense against the wall. His eyes smoldered like molten ore._

_“They look better,” she mused aloud instead, referring to the feather-wounds that the poultice had done its proper job on._

_A shiver ruffled the feathers along Aziraphale’s back. “They look…angelic?”_

_Anathema paused. She didn’t know what that meant, per say, but they were white on the ends and whole save for the old breaks. So she dabbed more poultice on and said, “Yes. Nothing to worry about.”_

_She prayed it wasn’t a lie._

So, yes, Anathema could understand why Crowley asked of her what he did. Didn’t mean she liked it – Anathema’s official stance was actively against, thanks very much – but she understood it. If someone hurt Newt the way demons had done Aziraphale, there would be hell to pay. Metaphorically speaking.

Not that anyone would have it in for him. Except for, perhaps, the man from the electric.

The witch stood abruptly. There was little chance of getting work done while she was so worked up about Aziraphale. Not that she didn’t trust Crowley to take perfect care of him; just the opposite. Even so, she slid open her cell phone and called one of the top numbers. It picked up after three rings.

 “Hi, Mrs. Young,” Anathema greeted brightly, “I’m fine, everything’s all good here, how’s  – yes, lots of wedding planning happening, very busy. Listen, can I talk to Adam for a second?”

* * *

 

Crowley found it surprisingly easy to adjust to life with another person in the flat.

When he wasn’t napping, Aziraphale puttered quietly around the flat in the tartan slippers that appeared not long after the Tesco clothes. He read on the couch while Crowley watched reality television and bad car chase movies, or in the plant room where, not long after deciding he would stay, a plush armchair had been installed.

The plants exuded a healthy aura of life as well as fear. With his Grace so weak as to be barely felt, Aziraphale couldn’t sense the latter, and so found the room comforting in its lush greenery.

“Oh, it’s wonderful,” he’d remarked, gazing in awe at the rows of verdant houseplants, “They’ve grown so lovely!”

Confused, the plants preened under his praise. Crowley bit the inside of his cheek to keep from spewing vitriol and settled for a fearsome glare that had the fiddle-leaf fig standing a centimeter straighter.

Every few days, Crowley sped over to the bookstore to make sure it hadn’t burnt down again and to pick up a new stack of books for Aziraphale to read. A dark circle marked the floor near the angelic transportation portal where, Crowley assumed, a demon had sprung up to kidnap him. He’d taken great pleasure in scrubbing the char away with his hands in lieu of miracle.

They’d learned the hard way Aziraphale couldn’t stomach anything rich (there had been an unfortunate incident with takeaway that made Crowley shudder to remember). He’d never personally vomited, and after spending twenty minutes knelt on the cold bathroom tile next to a heaving angel with a hand on his back, he prayed he never would.

Instead, Crowley made toast and lightly scrambled eggs and rice with soft vegetables from the frozen section, and Aziraphale kept it down alright. The angel was most put out when a few sips of cocoa made him queasy, so Crowley always put a little extra sugar in his tea even though the websites said not to have too much of that. Not _all_ human rules could apply to them, right?

More than anything, Aziraphale slept. Whereas he’d refused Crowley’s tempting to try some shuteye for ages, now it seemed his corporation intended to heal the human way, and everything on the internet pushed rest, rest, rest when one was ill. Sometimes he placed a bookmark between the pages of whatever Crowley got from the store and leant against the demon’s shoulder as he watched those Satan-awful car chase movies he was fond of; sometimes entire nights were spent dozing away in the big, expensive bed Crowley insisted he use.

“But where will you sleep, my dear?” he’d asked once as Crowley poked his head in to check in on him. A habit Aziraphale seemed vaguely annoyed about, but never commented on.

The demon had shrugged, loathe to admit he wasn’t sleeping much at all for fear something (or someone) would come knocking while they were both indisposed. “Couch.”

All in all, Aziraphale seemed to be on the mend. All the sleeping and eating out of necessity rather than pleasure was normal, according to the websites. And Anathema. And Ms. Beatrice, the kindly older woman downstairs who Crowley had bothered for chicken stock once and now asked after his ill “boyfriend” whenever they crossed paths in the lobby.

No, Crowley wasn’t concerned with all that. What worried him was how little _joy_ Aziraphale exuded. He supposed it was natural, given the circumstances, but all the beaming and bouncing and energetic rambling on Wilde or Shakespeare had diminished to a dead-eyed nothing.

 Aziraphale read on the couch or in the plant room, smiled a small thing that didn’t reach his eyes when Crowley placed a mug of Anathema’s pagan tea by his elbow, engaged in some light conversation, but it wasn’t at all the same as his usual manic self. A general air of malaise hung about him like a worrying raincloud. Fitting, since he seemed like a stiff wind would bowl him over any second.

 There were a lot of words Crowley would use to describe Aziraphale that his friend might huff at. Frumpy was one. Silly another. Anachronistic. Eclectic. Ridiculous, know-it-all, bibliophilic, abso-fucking-lutely adorable bastard. 

  _Fragile_ was not, nor should ever be, a descriptor of his strong, brave, God-given-sword-wielding Guardian of Eden. Aziraphale was soft by choice, and Crowley wanted to burn anyone who’d dare take that autonomy from him. 

But that would have to wait for Anathema to get back to him.

Crowley was pulled from his dark reverie by the sound of rustling from the bedroom. He turned over the back of the couch, listening intently, and – yep, there it was. A soft, high-pitched whine that ached in his very soul.

He leapt off the couch and dashed for the bedroom.

* * *

 

_“So this is the upstart little angel who stopped Armageddon, hm?”_

_A voice like knives down his spine cut through the echoing wails, horrifyingly, unimaginably familiar. Aziraphale bit off a terrified whimper as a presence much alike a black hole entered his dank cell. One he’d felt months before at the end of the world._

No. No, no, no, oh Lord please no –

_“Yes, your most unholy Disgrace,” the demon simpered._

_A claw lifted his chin to meet eyes black as pitch_ , _cracked red lips pulled over dragon teeth in an amused half-smile._

“ _How delightful,” Satan murmured, and Aziraphale had never so keenly feared for his life, “Very rebellious of you, little brother. We like that down here. You’ll get along nicely once you’ve Fallen.”_

 _Claws scraped along the sensitive ligament overlaid on the wing's humerus, obsidian sharp, and he was fuzzy on the details of what happened next other than a sickening_ crunch _as bones shattered –_

“Aziraphale!”

Awakening with a jolt, his eyes snapped open the same moment he bolted upright – right into Crowley’s jaw.

“ _Fucking hell – “_

Aziraphale blinked in rapid succession to clear the nightmare from his eyes. He looked and saw Crowley, sprawled out on the floor, and felt an immediate rush of guilt. “Sorry!”

“Hell, angel, didn’t know you packed that much of a punch,” Crowley gritted, rubbing at his jaw. Golden eyes were wide with surprise.

Gold. Beautiful, enchanting, serpentine gold. Not black as death themself. Never black.

“My dear, truly, I am so – “

“ ‘S okay, promise.” Crowley sat gingerly on the edge of the bed, gold eyes turned calculating. One hand came to rest lightly on his knee; he realized he was shaking. “Nightmare?”

_You’ll get along nicely once you’ve Fallen._

Aziraphale shivered and tugged the dressing gown securely over his middle. “Perhaps. Or a memory. I don’t know if I can get nightmares.”

“I do. Sometimes. Wouldn’t be that much of a stretch.” Crowley’s lips twitched up. “The fourteenth century was enough to give anyone nightmares, huh?”

A sigh was his only reply. Aziraphale reached out to trace his fingers along the spot where he’d made a solid connection with Crowley’s jaw. Upon closer inspection, the purpling bruise had faded before it could set, but the dark circles under his eyes remained. So he was unaware of them, and hadn’t even tried to miracle them away. Aziraphale frowned.

“You’re tired,” he accused.

Crowley shrugged in that infuriatingly casual way of his that meant he was deflecting and tugged his head away. “Haven’t been sleeping well. Not like we need sleep much, anyway.”

“Liar; I know you’ve grown accustomed to it. I’ve told you, I’d be perfectly fine on the couch,” Aziraphale said, exasperated. They’d had this argument _several_ times over the past two weeks. He paused, hesitant, and added. “Or we could share the bed. I don’t mind.”

The temperature seemed to drop by several degrees. For a being who had once been a snake, it was to his credit that the demon didn’t flee when immediately uncomfortable. Tensing, Crowley shifted on the bed and made several complicated noises with his throat.

“Er, weeeeell, see. Um. I think it’s probably best if I don’t.”

He paused, but didn’t give anything in the way of an explanation. Aziraphale swallowed the bitter sting of disappointment.  _Of course._ “Right. Well. The offer to switch still stands.”

Mentally, he berated himself. Really, how much further could he push Crowley before his friend had had enough of him? He was being oh-so-endearingly _nice_ (despite what one might say about four-letter words), and Aziraphale would be forever grateful to him for offering up his flat to stay in, the cooking and the books and the bed.

But it also further cemented in his mind that Crowley thought him...weak. Soft. Not fast enough to avoid being captured, not clever enough to escape Hell on his own, not strong enough to take care of himself.

Not the sort you'd want to start anything with; Aziraphale bloody well couldn't blame him. How foolish to think he had wanted to _talk_ prior to his capture.

“Right,” Crowley repeated before flinging off the bed. “ _Right,_ so I’m gonna go watch some telly. Feel free to join me.”

Then he was out the door before Aziraphale could say anything. It wasn’t so much fleeing as a strategic exit, but Aziraphale still felt that poignant ache of emptiness with his departure in his chest.

He flopped back onto the plush bed and sighed. It did nothing to mend his heart.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> What can I say they’re dumb and they’re gay and they’re dumb and I love them but they’re dumb  
> I'm...not a huge fan of how this chapter turned out. Might go back and edit later. Feedback appreciated?


	7. soon to deceive and discover

Crowley’s eyebrows slowly raised of their own accord at the file on his laptop. “This is…”

“Ambitious,” Anathema finished, “Yes.”

He heard her huff from the other end of the line as he tapped thoughtfully on the table. “Says I need a human to do it.”

“Not necessarily. Just that I think if _you_ were to do it, you’d either be smote on the spot or – what’s the word you two use for dying?”

“Discorporated.”

“ _Discorporated_ ,” Anathema said like it was a politician she disliked, “And while I get the feeling you’re one-hundred percent okay with that, I’m not and neither is Aziraphale. Crowley,” now she paused, less smoldering frustration and more genuine concern, “Are you sure this is worth the risk?”

He didn’t respond immediately. It _was_ a risk, one he could only rely on sheer, dangerous will to overcome as well as a staggering amount of luck. He thought about the consequences of summoning someone so powerful, and what exactly could happen to him when he did.

Thought again to the angel reading on the balcony overlooking London, as close to content as time would allow. The fear in his expression when Crowley woke him from a nightmare last night, the soul-bruising eyes that pinched when Crowley rejected the comfort he needed for danger of going too fast, the way he would sometimes stop and stare into space with hitched breathing, caught in the throes of a horrific memory.

In the end, it wasn’t hard.

“Yeah.” Crowley swallowed around a sudden lump in his throat. Must be that awful oatmeal he’d made Aziraphale that morning. “Yeah, it is.”

Anathema let out another breath over the phone. When she spoke, the anger had gone from her voice entirely, replaced by a muted sadness. “You know I can’t help you, then. I’ve got Newt to think about.”

“I wasn’t going to ask that of you,” he said quickly, “I can find someone brave or stupid enough to face down the forces of Heaven without really understanding what’s happening. Someone who wouldn’t think twice about entangling with the occult.”

Crowley halted midway through scrubbing a hand through his hair; on the other end, Anathema hummed.

Then, in unison:

“Shadwell.”

* * *

 

Aziraphale had wanted to give Crowley a touch of space after the…unfortunate incident the night prior, so he’d taken his copy of _The Importance of Being Earnest_ out onto the balcony. Late January was starting its descent into early February, and the air tasted like snowfall. The wind whipping his cheeks was nippy, though Aziraphale’s angelic temperature regulation kept him comfortable, as angels ran a little hotter than humans and quite a bit hotter than demons.

Wilde, for the first time, failed to draw his attention away from the problem at hand. Every so often, Aziraphale would think about the way Crowley had almost bolted from the bedroom last night, how entirely unappealing it must have seemed to invite him to share a bed while still sweating and shaking from the horrors of a nightmare. How his traitorous mind now whispered that he’d misread everything since the Blitz, and had begun to see in those little acts of affection romantic intent where there had never been any.

Or, it whispered, perhaps he hadn’t. Perhaps he’d moved too slow, and lost Crowley entirely, and all this was merely a show of friendship, obligation born of 6,000 years of comradery.

The thought made his stomach twist in that unpleasant way that had proceeded the vomiting. Awful thing, that. How did humans stand it?  
His mind was robbed of peace yet again as Crowley stepped out to the balcony in nothing but a tight black t-shirt and jeans, holding a steaming mug of coffee. He only made coffee the human way – said it was grounding – and only did so when he needed a distraction from something. Aziraphale frowned, but said nothing.

Crowley shivered. “Cold out here.”

“I think it feels rather nice,” the angel hummed mildly, turning a page.

Crowley said nothing in dissent of that opinion, conjuring up a thick, stylish wool sweater over the shirt. He nodded at a pile of unopened envelopes that sat by Aziraphale’s tea.

“What’s that, then?”

“Oh, you’ve got mail.” Another page coolly turned, “Someone slipped them under your doorway since you never check your mailbox.”

“Can’t be. I never get mail. Made sure of it in the seventies.” At Aziraphale’s quizzical little shrug, Crowley picked up the pile and flicked through the letters.

Aziraphale peeked subtly over the rim of his glasses in interest as Crowley’s lips did that odd little half-smile press thing. His heart fluttered.

“Angel, did you check who these are addressed to?”

Coming to terms with the fact that he wouldn’t be getting any reading done at all, Aziraphale huffed and closed the book. He said, with just a hint of sarcasm, “Well it is _your_ flat, so forgive me for assuming.” Then, worriedly, “Oh, dear, I do hope it’s not the tax inspectors again…”

He trailed off at the sight of his name, scribbled in what looked to be blue colored pencil, on the front. Spelled incorrectly, of course. The return label read _Tadfield._

Crowley deigned not to comment on how the tax inspectors would know to send mail to his flat, or what had happened last time they caught a whiff of Aziraphale’s near-zero-sum business. He waited patiently as blonde eyebrows lifted, envelopes carefully tore, and a series of hand-made cards tumbled out.

“Oh,” Aziraphale breathed. Wide blue eyes scanned the cards that read _Get Well Soon!,_ illustrated by the Them and detailing that they were very sorry he was sick and wished him a speedy recovery. Anathema must have told them something was up, although she had surely left out the exact details. Each card came with different scenes of a demon and an angel and the Them, sometimes joined by Anathema and Newt and Dog. They were somehow distinguishable given how crude the depictions were. One lumpy Aziraphale done by Pepper had a matchstick arm crossed over that of a round black _thing_ with horns and a tail, holding as close a thing to hands as could be managed.

“I haven’t got horns,” Crowley muttered. It was heatless in the wake of seeing Aziraphale sniff and wipe quickly at his eyes. “Hey, angel, okay there?”

“Just…just a tad overwhelmed, that’s all,” he croaked.

Neither of them were in the habit of making friends; certainly not _human_ friends, whose lives were so fragile and short compared to theirs, effervescent for a mere moment and then gone forever. Aziraphale was already unused to acknowledging that Crowley might care for him far more than anticipated (and now that sentiment was edging harder on the _might)_. To have _several_ other beings prove that he…well, that he _meant_ something…Aziraphale dabbed at his eyes with the housecoast sleeve.  

“They really are wonderful children. I do hope we should find occasion to see them soon.”

“If you think those kids aren’t gonna be at the Pulsifer-Device ‘Tadfield Wedding of the Century’, you’re mad,” Crowley said, shuddering as he lifted the coffee cup to his lips, “Just imagine the chaos they’ll cause…on second thought, I’m actually looking forward to it now.”

Aziraphale, still a bit dewy-eyed as he hungrily drank in the pictures drawn by their young friends, looked up to blink at him. “We haven’t been invited to a wedding, though.”

“Bottom card’s got both our names on it and a fancy return label.” Crowley plucked the card from under Brian’s card like it was a magic trick. “Just a hunch.”

“Oh, that’s wonderful!” Aziraphale tore open the envelope as neatly as his excited fingers would allow, “It’s rather soon, oh dear, late April, I wonder why they chose that? Though I suppose they both said they haven't got much family, and neither seemed to be for an extravagant affair - look, they want us to mark down what we want for dinner with the RSVP, how clever - oh, we'll have to find something to wear, then, this'll never do - "

Crowley had an odd look on his face, watching him close, chin held in his hand. Aziraphale realized he’d been rambling on for quite a bit and stopped, mumbling,  red-faced, “Sorry. Got a bit carried away there.”

“Don’t mention it.” Crowley leaned back with another swig of his mud. “I’ve got some errands to run tomorrow, was thinking of popping by the bookshop. Any requests? I know you’ve gone through the last stack already.”

Aziraphale paused. He had been firm in his resolution not to bother Crowley with any more of this silly recovery nonsense, and having him drive all the way to Soho definitely fell into that category.

But then, for the moment it looked as if he might say no, Crowley’s expression shuttered for a half-second. Perhaps there was more to it than that; Aziraphale would not push him into revealing what.

“Oh, well…if you’re offering…perhaps there’s one or two I might ask you to get.”

* * *

 

The next morning, Crowley set a list three pages thick down on the desk in the bookshop’s backroom.  To any passersby, the locked doors and the sign posted in the front proclaiming Mr. Fell was on holiday would be enough to keep the shop empty while this all went down. His heart beat staccato in his chest; an unfortunate side effect of having been human for so long.

“Mr. Crowley,” Shadwell said nervously, “What, ah, exactly d’ ye want me t’ be doin’ here?”

Crowley had picked him up from Victoria Station twenty minutes prior, as he and the newly-dubbed Mrs. Shadwell (done so by a friend, as neither of them were big ceremony people) had moved to a nice little cottage on the southern shore near Brighten. The witch hunter had taken on an early retirement while Madame Tracy continued to thrill people with her psychic business venture (yet had dropped the bit about Intimate Relaxation for the Discerning Gentleman).

 He’d yammered on about this and that the whole car ride from the train station, but had never once broached the subject of why he’d been asked to come down to London.

“I need you to read some lines in Latin,” Crowley said, “And after that, I need you to be very, very quiet, and not say a word.”

“Ah, er, right. Easy enough. But why do ye need me?”

“Because the being we are summoning will not be pleased to see me.” Crowley paused, and added, reluctant as ever when he told the truth, “Because we are going up against an agent of Heaven, and I might be smote on the spot if I spoke the words.”

Shadwell sputtered, “Now see here! I’ll not be summonin’ an angel of the Lord - !”

“This angel of the Lord threw Aziraphale down to Hell to be tortured for the rest of eternity!” Crowley snapped. Only now, weeks later, had he admitted that out loud. And, weeks later, the very idea still sent a cold thunderbolt of hellish rage coursing through the ichor in his veins.

Shadwell had paused, bushy grey brows near in his hairline, mouth agape. Crowley took a breath. Lords of Hell below, he didn’t want to have this conversation with _anyone_ , much less Shadwell. But this needed to be done. If baring the deepest pits of his soul to the man who’d pulled the wool over his eyes for fifty years got them one step closer to bringing Aziraphale peace…Crowley was prepared to tear himself down for that.

“He was terribly hurt,” the demon muttered, “And I don’t know why, and it’s been the worst feeling in the universe to have someone you care about around and you can’t help, not in any way that matters. He did nothing wrong, and they punished him for it, and _that_ , Sergeant, is why I need you to read those lines. So I can help him. If it’s not something you’re willing to do, I’ll find someone else. But I need to do this. For Aziraphale.”

After a moment’s pause, Shadwell straightened to attention, book tucked firmly under his arm, “Well, then, anyone who harms Mr. Aziraphale is certainly no friend of ours. I’m yers t’ command, Mr. Crowley.”

Crowley nodded. “Thank you,” he said, so soft he hoped Shadwell hadn’t heard. He did, of course, and straightened just a touch further. _Prick_.

Together they slid the rug from its position atop the angelic sigil drawn in chalk on the floor. Shadwell got a sort of guilty look as it came into view. Crowley lit the candles and nodded at him, and he began the chant.

Having been in Rome at the time before Latin was a preserved language, it was immediately apparent that Shadwell’s thickly-accented Latin was _awful._ Soft c’s and mangled _mihi’s_ (pronounced mih-hih) grated on Crowley’s ears. For a brief minute after he finished, and nothing happened, Crowley feared he’d mucked it up so bad the chant hadn’t worked.

Then bright light filled in the lines of chalk, much as his own transformation portal to Hell had weeks ago. Crowley felt the itchy, pins-and-needles sensation at the back of his neck that only came with an influx of Heavenly energy. His gut tightened, form tense. His demonic senses braced for a fight.

And then, with a flash of lilac light and a _pop_ much like a Christmas cracker, the archangel fucking Gabriel appeared before them.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Another rough cut chapter, but glad to hear a general positive consensus with the last one :) in my original plan, we continued after summoning Gabriel, but I thought it flowed better to break it up. Whoops?  
> Chapter title tbd


	8. a will, a way, a wherefore

The show of light and smoke and whipping wind made for a rather dramatic entrance by the archangel. Unfortunately, Gabriel had appeared with his back facing them, so that ruined the effect a touch. For a few long, terrifying seconds, the angel stood stock still as he tried to comprehend what had happened.

“What the _hell_ \- “

“Not quite,” Crowley said, slipping into the cooly-confident persona he’d perfected for presentations to the Dark Council, “Hiya, Gabey.”

Gabriel spun on his feet, violet eyes narrowed into slits. “You! How _dare_ you! You’re insane!”

“Certainly. Absolutely fuckin’ bonkers, ta.”

If looks could kill, Crowley would have never existed, snuffed out before time itself started. Gabriel was clearly unused to being caught off guard. He felt a little twinge of satisfaction that he had the archangel at his mercy, and Gabriel knew it.

“This is how you work now?” he snorted, gesturing at Shadwell, “Getting humans to do the summons so your hands are clean? Low, demon. Tarnishing this poor man’s soul for revenge.”

Shadwell, who had been cowering silent halfway behind a bookshelf, chose now to pipe up. “Tarnishin’?”

Crowley waved a hand. “Please, that was there before we met. He’ll be fine, it’s – Sergeant, what denomination are you?”

“Roman Catholic, sir.”

Both he and Gabriel pulled a thoughtful face.

“Purgatory then,” Crowley said, which Gabriel nodded at. The demon waved a hand, and the particles of time surrounding Shadwell froze with the man in a most unflattering pose. Crowley turned back to the threat at hand.

“Right. I assume you know why I’ve summoned you.”  
Gabriel gave him a flat, unimpressed look. “This is about Aziraphale.”

“Yeeep.” He popped the ‘p’, circling the flames with his hands tucked behind his back. “Y’see, Gabe, the thing about messing with insane people - well, insane occult beings, mind - is they don’t care for much. Only when they _do_ care for something, and you mess with it, well. Can’t expect anything pleasant, can you?”

“This is too far. Even for you,” Gabriel’s mouth twitched into a nasty sneer, “ _Raphael_.”

From an outsider’s view, Crowley appeared to have snagged his foot on the edge of Azirahale’s awful carpet. What really happened was, in speaking his true name, Gabriel had caused the singular moment of his Fall, which happened both in a flash and over countless agonizing years, to be reborn in his mind in a split second. White-hot pain seared through his skull at the memory of _falling, burning, hurtling towards Hell at a million light years per second, Her warmth ripped away and leaving bone-deep cold in the wake of boiling sulfur._

“Shut it,” the once-angel gagged. The flames encroached on Gabriel; his pointed smile slid. 

“You wouldn’t dare,” the archangel warned.

“Try me.” Crowley stood not a hair’s breadth from the hellfire, ghostly blue flames casting a manic, dark edge to his sharp features. He whipped the glasses from his face and snarled, full of teeth in a way that was decidedly more demon than serpent, “We’re not here to talk about dead friendships. Not about _me._ Why did you send Aziraphale to Hell?”

Gabriel glared at him with the full, thunderous might of an archangel, and Crowley fought not to shudder. “You know, you think you’re subtle. You’re not. You two are the most disgustingly obvious beings on this whole miserable planet. How could an angel – a blessed _Principality –_  love something so wretched?”

 _Love._ Now certainly wasn’t the time or place to start unpacking that, especially not with the bitter insinuation tagged onto it. Crowley tried to shrug off the attack, uncomfortable in how close it hit to his own doubts.

Instead, he went for cocking his head, and pulling a face. “Oh, ‘s that it, then? We’re jealous Mummy still loves Aziraphale enough that even after all he’s done, he still ranks higher than you? Low, Gabe, even for you.”

Gabriel didn’t take the bait.

“You’re Fallen,” he bit. The words were said with the sort of calm that preludes hurricanes. The air tasted suddenly of ozone and iron, a dangerous charge run through the atmosphere, “You were cast out of Her glorious Light. No angel should _fraternize_ ,” and here, Crowley felt a chill run down every single vertebra, “So closely with someone tainted by the Darkness. To _love_ a being like that – it’s Ungodly.”

And that – that _hit._ Panic began to build in Crowley’s throat, his chest, his atoms. Everything he’d dismissed as paranoia, every vague fear that their 6,000 year friendship had tarnished Aziraphale’s Grace, was being thrown back in his face and proven true. His worst nightmares were come to life before his very eyes.

“So this is my fault?” Crowley asked. To his credit, it came out a low, venomous whisper instead of the broken thing it really was. Gabriel didn’t seem to pick up on his vulnerability.

He cocked his head with a smug grin. “We figured out your little trick not long after the trial – “

“Summary execution, more like.”

“ – and thought, well, we could just smite you both and be done with it. But then Michael pointed out that that was too easy. Aziraphale had chosen his lot. It was only on a technicality that he was still an angel. So we thought we’d…” Gabriel rolled his index fingers over one another, “ _Speed up_ the process.”

There was a kind of sick glee to the way he explained it all, the kind that went into management training and feedback surveys. Crowley was reminded, horribly, of Hell.

“You can’t _make_ someone Fall,” he growled, “They have to say it. Make a renouncement. _Torturing_ someone into making one isn’t speeding up anything; it’s _cheating_. Shocked God let you get away with it.”

A shadow crossed the angel’s face, like wings over Sodom, and this time Crowley _did_ shudder.

“Metatron contacted me soon after. He demanded we return Aziraphale to his rightful place among the humans. He said – “ Gabriel turned his head sharply away, scowling with a bitterness that rivaled the Plagues, “He said it was the Almighty’s direct will.”

The charge in the air crackled with untamed Grace. Gabriel’s wrath had been something to behold back in the day. But now, contained by hellfire, revealing that he’d been reprimanded by Mummy, all of the power he’d been lording over the demon vanished like dewdrops on an August afternoon.

“If the _Almighty_ Herself said so, then…” Crowley grinned, fear dissipating, “Oh. _Oh!_ He’s still forgivable. _Untemptable._ You can’t _touch_ him!”

“Are you so certain of that?” Spoken like a threat, yet underlaid with an itching discomfort, bristling at being _wrong._ Archangels were never wrong. Certainly never _Gabriel._

 _Must be killing you,_ Crowley thought, _God told you herself Aziraphale means more. You must be frothing at the ethereal thousand mouths._

Contrary to popular belief (popular being one particular, gorgeous angel), Crowley _did_ have some semblance of self-preservation instincts, so he kept that to himself. Instead, he leant just a tad closer.

“I’ll live with it.” He backpaddled and clapped his hands. “Well! You’ve been a jolly help. I should let you get on with your day, taken enough time without an appointment as is.”

Gabriel scowled somehow harder. “Mark my words, demon, there will be Hell to pay for this.”

“Oh, I don’t think so, ol’ Beez signed on it. Okay, great talking to you!”

He couldn’t chant a summoning, but one thing a demon knew plenty of was exorcism. Crowley snapped his fingers and watched, elated, as Gabriel’s face pulled with surprise. Light filled the air again, and he shot up like a rocket and disappeared.

Crowley whooped with delight in the empty shop. Aziraphale hadn’t Fallen. _Wouldn’t_ Fall, not with the Almighty in their corner.

 _I haven’t ruined him_ , Crowley thought. The corners of his mouth twinged with how wide he was smiling, entirely unused to such a thing. _I_ won’t _ruin him. We can just…be_.

He waved a hand, and Shadwell came unfrozen, blinking at the spot where Gabriel had been.

“Hang on,” he croaked, “Where’d the American wanker go?”

Crowley tossed back his head and laughed. “American wanker, oh, good one, Sergeant. He’s gone, he won’t be bothering anyone again. Your help was greatly appreciated.”

Still confused, having missed most of the conversation, Shadwell nevertheless straightened out the old witchfinder’s coat he’d dug out of retirement for this.

“We-eeell, wasn’t a problem at all, Mr. Crowley.” He looked pleased as punch with himself. “These angel types, then, they won’t be botherin’ Mr. Aziraphale no more?”

“I should think not. Lift home?”

With a snap of his fingers, a bag appeared stuffed with the books Aziraphale had asked for, and Crowley went swaggering out the door, followed by Shadwell. The man was mumbling something, but Crowley was too occupied with thoughts of returning to the flat to share the good news. Perhaps, even, he’d stop off at the flower shop near the creperie Aziraphale loved. Pick up a dozen roses or so. Maybe all white, with a single red one straight in the middle.

 _Or –_ Crowley somehow grinned wider. Maybe a coded bouquet. His angel so did love symbolism, and had been quite put out when flower language had lost traction.

The sun shone bright against a backdrop of fluffy white snow. It was nearly noon, but Crowley felt it was a brand new day.

* * *

 

_“Come on then, just say it. It’ll be easy.”_

_Time meant nothing when all it consisted of was pain, but Aziraphale had lost track of how often the demon had asked that of him. Hellfire licked from his fingertips, a threat and a promise, and the angel shuddered._ _His wings had been broken, healed with the rest of him when he passed out, broken again, pain blinding as he begged the Almighty to make them stop –_

_“It stops when you Fall, poppet. Just make the renouncement, and I’ll make it all go away.”_

_Aziraphale lifted his head, tasting iron in his mouth, and snarled with bloodied teeth, “I’d rather die.”_

_The demon smiled, too wide, too sharp, too many fangs._

_“That’s not in my contract, sweetheart.”_

Aziraphale’s nails dug into his palms as he stared down his reflection. It wasn’t much to look at; he wasn’t particularly vain when it came to the unavoidable parts of the vessel itself ( _vanity is a sin, not befitting of angels, you’ll Fall you’ll Fall you’ll Fall)._ Fluffy hair stuck up in all directions, bags under the eyes, cheeks just barely getting back their usual rosy glow.

He bit the inside of his cheek. It’d been nearly a month since his rescue, two since being dragged to Hell, and in all that time, he hadn’t once looked at his wings for fear of what they must look like. In the ether, they prickled uncomfortably with the combination of Anathema’s dried poultice and an oncoming molt, in desperate need of a good preening.

They had been a target in Hell. The various demons and Lords had found wonder in sullying the bright gleam of the mark of an angel; Aziraphale shifted them from where they were tucked away in the ethereal plane, and felt delicate bones creak in a way they hadn’t been meant to. Disgust twinged along his back, where the roots would be.

 _I’d have known, though, wouldn’t I?_ he thought, _Falling is no small ordeal. Would I have felt it if…_

From the main room, he heard the front door unlock and swing open, followed by Crowley’s breathless cry of, “Angel!”

Aziraphale blinked, startled from his dark musings. Crowley sounded far too excited for a simple run to the bookshop. He shook off the suspicion; he’d deal with whatever it was once this was all over and done with.

“In the loo!” he called back. Turned back to the problem at hand, steeled his resolve.

Fallen or not, he’d have to come to terms with what happened eventually. This was just a...first step. Aziraphale sucked in a breath and let his wings burst into this realm, still sore and misshapen as they unfolded. He glanced quickly in the mirror - and cried out.

“ _Crowley!”_

A heartbeat later, the demon skidded into the doorway. “What’s wrong?” he panted, though Aziraphale didn’t answer. He was still staring in abject horror at his reflection.

The wings weren’t black. They _were,_ however, grey at the top, mottling from dark silver down to their usual snow white along the very bottom pinfeathers. Aziraphale flexed one, watching the new pinions catch the light, and swallowed.

“What…” His voice sounded wrecked and distant to his own ears, “What does this mean?”

“I’ve no idea.” Eyes wide, Crowley stroked a hand over one reverently without even noticing he was doing it. Also not of his own accord, he murmured, “Beautiful.”

Wrong choice, as Aziraphale snapped his wings tight against his back and scowled. “ _Stop that._ They’re - I can’t - I-I’m _tainted._ ”

Crowley stiffened in a way that did not at all befit a human, snake, or demon. As if struck by rigor mortis that had taken over his entire body all at once. “You haven’t Fallen though,” he said, slowly, like trying to convince a child the sky is blue.

“Does it matter?” Aziraphale snapped, “I’m – whatever _this_ is, it can’t – it’s not happened before, ever.”

“Angel – “

“ _Don’t call me that!_ ” Aziraphale could tell he was on the verge of a complete breakdown, panic ugly and raw and all-consuming inside his too-human frame, and that it wasn’t Crowley’s fault, not really, and could he please not take it out on him? Only these thoughts flitted by in an instant before the dread set in again. “I’m not an angel. Not anymore. I’m _wretched_. Half-Fallen; a disgrace. _Unloveable._ ”

Aziraphale was, of course, referring to the warmth of the Almighty’s love, ubiquitous through his life since the very days of Creation. A love he had already feared had gone from him, that made him want to beg for forgiveness upon realizing it truly had.

However, this was not what it sounded like to Crowley. The demon’s mouth hung open in shock, and immutable grief, and a hurt so terrible the building’s foundations cracked just a smidge.

“Right,” he said. Dazed, like someone who had taken a baseball bat upside the head. He had his glasses off; the gold of his eyes extended all throughout the whites. “I’m sorry. You’re right. How could anyone ever love someone who’s Fallen?”

It was the strange, strangled hollowness with which the words were said that pulled the angel from his self-remonstration. Aziraphale froze, heartbeat thundering in his ears, as his words caught up to him. As the full weight of how he’d said them, and who he’d said them _to,_ crashed into his chest like a lorry. “Oh, Crowley, I didn’t mean – “

“ ‘S okay,” the demon muttered, backing up. His face was carefully, frightfully neutral, but God, his _eyes –_ “I know what you meant.”

“Crowley, _wait –_ “

But he had gone.

Aziraphale made to go after him, but in his desperation to get to Crowley and _explain_ himself, he forgot his wings were out. Blinding hot pain arched up the right one as it smacked into the door frame. The angel fell, clutched the edge of the sinktop, hot tears crowding the corners of his eyes.

_You’ve lost the Almighty, you’ve lost Heaven, and now you’ve lost the only person who ever really cared. Being of ineffable love, indeed._

Aziraphale cried out in anguish and flung a fist at his reflection. He relished the sting of pain as the mirror shattered.

* * *

 

Far above them, in an endless expanse that modeled a high rise, the archangel Gabriel popped into being. He staggered, off-kilter from not only being summoned (an ordeal that hadn’t happened in 2,000 years, and left a pile of smoldering bodies to ensure it never would again) but from being forcibly discharged as well.

Uriel was at his side in an instant, having been mid-conversation when that _bloody fiend_ Crowley deigned to meddle in Heavenly affairs. Where _exactly_ did he get off?

“You alright?”

She must have felt his presence ascending. Gabriel waved her off. His tailored clothes smelt of smoke and gunpowder that would only come out by miracle; the ends of his corporeal hair had singed.

_I’ll kill him. Forget falling; I’ll make him regret Creation itself._

“Call our associate.”

Uriel frowned. “But…the non-interaction agreement – “

“Bless the agreement!” Gabriel roared with a voice backed by hundreds of blazing, discordant trumpets. The sound echoed across the blank expanse of Heaven, painful like a mother’s outburst in a supermarket.

Uriel backed up. Not afraid; just cautious. Her fingers twitched at her side, ready to draw the flaming sword of a Cherubim should it come to that.

Gabriel took a single, cleansing breath, and smiled his iciest, most chipper smile. “The agreement has been far too lenient. This disrespect will no longer be tolerated.”

“We should take a vote,” Uriel suggested after a moment’s silence, “Michael and Sandalphon.  Has to be unanimous.”

“Fine. But after that?” Gabriel flexed his wings, starlight and heads and eyes and all, “I’ll call him myself.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hello wonderful people i was reading your amazing and excited comments about wanting the boys to be happy and felt Guilt while editing this chapter so uhhhh sorry?  
> Titles from this and the previous chapter from "The March of the Black Queen"  
> NOW WITH [FANART](https://archiveofourown.org/works/20072239)


	9. playing at the wrong game

Aziraphale bit his lip to keep from sobbing, feeling hot tears streak down his cheeks. His hand throbbed where knuckles bled. He wasn’t usually prone to volatile outbursts, but then again, things were far from usual.

_Pathetic. Miserable thing. You ruin everything you touch; horrible excuse for an angel. There’s a reason everything you care for falls to ash around you._

_“Why do you consume_ that?” _Gabriel asked with a twist of disgust, “You’re an_ angel.”

_“You really think Upstairs will take your call? You’re ridiculous,” Uriel sneered, fists in his jacket holding him several inches off the ground against brick._

_The quartermaster’s mouth bared wide in righteous fury. “You show up_ late _for Armageddon, no flaming sword, not even a body you pathetic excuse for an angel!”_

He swallowed.

Fine. Perhaps he was.

Aziraphale scrubbed the back of his uninjured hand across his cheeks, taking several deep, shuddering breaths, and looked at himself hard in the mirror. Blue eyes, red-rimmed and puffy, stared back. Not black, not gold.

Blue.

 _Perhaps I was always a terrible angel,_ he thought, feeling something like resolve cool and harden in his chest, obsidian glass after a volcanic eruption, _But I swear to all of Heaven and Hell, I’ll be a worse demon._

“Right then,” he mumbled under his breath, nodding once.

Aziraphale hastened to the living room.

“Crowley?”

No luck. His friend appeared to have vacated the flat. He had always had the unfortunate tendency to run away from what made him uncomfortable, not that Aziraphale could blame him for this one. All the terrible things he said kept floating back like they were meant to haunt him forever, throwing the circumstances of Crowley’s Fall from Grace back in his face with each cutting remark. In his panic at realizing his own disgrace, Aziraphale had selfishly ignored how his words might cut his friend.

 _After all he’s done,_ he scolded himself, _you still manage to push him to the side. Rotten job._

The flat was cold, empty and silent, grey marble and white furniture silent in the aftermath. Crowley kept his flat a ridiculously clean-cut, “modernist” haven of tidied anxiety. Therefore, the flowers scattered on the ground caught his attention immediately.

With shaking fingers, Aziraphale picked up the ruined bouquet by banded stalks. They had been, at one point, a full bouquet. Carnations, roses, chrysanthemums, all a deep, vibrant red. A combination that, if he remembered his flower code correctly, detailed a burning love.

And, scattered all throughout, pure white gloxinia. Love at first sight.

Really, a terribly combination, especially given Crowley’s proclivity towards flowers. But Aziraphale could sense a faint imprint of emotion on them, like the flash burned into one’s eyelids after a picture taken. Boundless joy, excitement, and relief, compounded with a deep, all-consuming, ineffable _love_.

Aziraphale felt rather like someone had taken the bouquet and whacked him several times with it.

_Love. He loves you. This is a declaration, a promise of intent._

_You absolute_ moron.

“Crowley?” Aziraphale called, desperate this time, “Crowley!”

He went to the balcony and frowned. The Bentley was still parked in its usual illegal spot that the police never seemed to mind. Far below, on a pavement so thick with recent snowfall one would need supernaturally good vision to see it, footsteps marked the ground where someone had stormed towards it. Someone with snakeskin shoes that steamed and smoked when their wearer got too incensed.

Someone whose footsteps stopped halfway to their beloved car, met with another three sets of equally unnatural tracks, and turned bootprints into skid marks that led towards the back of the flat complex.

Aziraphale had never run faster.

* * *

5 minutes earlier…

* * *

 

Crowley stormed down the stairs for the pleasure of stomping on them instead of miracling the elevator faster, hands shoved in his pockets, somehow numb and raging fire all at once. The conversation played back in his head over and over like a broken ansaphone.

_Unloveable. Unloveable. Unloveable._

Crowley slammed opened the door with a flat palm. It swang, clanged against the steel outside, and nearly smacked him back in the face.

Cold air condensed in an icy breath. Somewhere through the grief, he acknowledged that Aziraphale was hurting. They hadn’t – how in the _world_ did both of them miss a change to his very celestial being? Alright, he’d seen the grey when they first got back from Hell, when Anathema checked in again, but he’d just thought them…dirty. Temporarily sullied. They weren’t the midnight color of a black hole, so why was he to worry? He was a demon, after all; had been for 6,000 years. He _knew_ what other demons felt like, sensed the rancid, soul-sucking emptiness that accompanied frog croaks and flies buzzing.

_How did I miss this?_

The air bit at his cheeks, penetrated the thin cloth of his t-shirt in a way that made his inner snake recoil. Fuck, but he hadn’t thought to bring a jacket.  Crowley halted ankle-deep in the recent snowfall.

“Are you happy now?” he growled, head tipped back to glare at a greying sky, “It’s done. Alright? Whatever this game you’ve been playing with us, it’s over. You won. Consider us punished.”

God, unsurprisingly, said nothing. Crowley flagged against a steel wall, feeling all the fight, all the rage and hurt and dying hope drain from him.

Demons weren’t meant to love at all. Their existence demanded they be inept at feeling something so blessedly Light. But somehow, despite it all, Crowley did. He _did,_ had for so long, and would for the foreseeable stretch of eternity. As a functionally loveless being, there was bound to be only so much heartbreak one could withstand before it all went to shit.

 “I thought you made him for me,” Crowley mumbled, face burning with the shame of how wrong he’d been, “I thought…maybe you didn’t have it out for me after all. That there was a reason I Fell. Seemed to be alright with the whole world not ending, even gave him back, let me keep him, and I thought…” He choked, millennia of hope and longing coming crashing down, the burning rubble of Rome scattered at his feet, “I see now this is just another torture you’ve whipped up. Can’t give a demon any peace, but have to find a clever way to make one who rejected Hell suffer. That’s _cruel_ , God. Make demons incapable of love, let me love anyway, and only ever want your best man? _Cruel_.”

Silence. Crowley, despite how his heart threatened to explode with grief at the very thought of Aziraphale, found his thoughts pulled back to dark pinfeathers and a broken angel. He sucked in another icy breath, long past the point of goosepimples. Any longer and he’d be heading into forced hibernation. The idea of returning to the flat made his stomach crawl up his throat. Best get to the Bentley.

With one last glance upward, he couldn’t help but tack on, soft and defeated, “He didn’t deserve that. Whatever you did, whatever _that_ was – it wasn’t his fault. Surely you know that. I – I know we don’t speak much, but please. He didn’t deserve that.”

“You sure about that?”

Crowley whipped around, but even he wasn’t fast enough to deflect _three_ demons at once – even if they were all technically the same being. As it were, he found himself dragged from the highly-visible kerb to the backalley of the flat complex where the bins were. No witnesses; that’s how demons liked to work.

Two hands gripped either bicep, deceptively strong, and reeking of soot. He glared at his fellow demon, who stood in front of his reflective corporations with a smug smirk. It’d been a good seven or eight months since he’d last seen his former compatriot, but those dark eyes were hard to misplace, as were the stupidly shaped hair pieces that one _insisted_ were horns but had always looked like rabbit ears to him.

Crowley saw a tornado of hellfire in his depthless eyes, and scowled.

“Xaphan. How nice. Fancy a holiday in London, did we?”

Xaphan grinned, a fairly normal one in his human form. In his gloved hands, he twiddled a knife whose very aura set Crowley’s teeth on edge, glimmering faintly in the settling dusk.

“Here on business, actually.” Xaphan fairly _skipped_ closer, brandishing the knife, “You’ve managed to piss off someone pretty important. Sent me to, ah, make sure you never fuck with an archangel again?”

Crowley glowered. “Gabriel.” _Fuck. Fuck, shit, bollocks –_

Suddenly the knife held loosely in Xaphan’s fingers made more sense. Up close, he could see a stripe of white-gold metal run through the blade that stopped at the handle.

“That’s celestial steel,” Crowley noted. Tried to keep rising panic from his voice.

Xaphan grinned impossibly wider. “Noticed that, did you?” He whistled, “Damn, mate, I dunno how you managed to get on this prick’s bad side, but he means business. Gave me the knife an’ the gloves an’ everythin’. All I’ve got to do is make sure it goes where you won’t recorporate and – well, Lord Beezlebub isn’t supposed to be workin’ with the wank-wings no more, but I’d imagine I’d get a pretty big promotion first.”

“Do you now?”

Crowley’s mind raced several thousand miles a second, far faster than any supercomputer, as he logged data and ran countless scenarios to work his way out of this one.

Xaphan, he knew, was being played by Gabriel; he couldn’t know about the non-interaction agreement Beezlebub had signed down in Hell, an unbreakable vow that meant his Side shouldn’t ever touch him. There wouldn’t be any promotion Downstairs, but he kept that to himself. Never knew when that card could be useful.

As for the odds, well – they were certainly stacked against him. One demon split into three, two of them holding him against the wall of a rotting metal bin, while the primary corporation held a weapon that could destroy his essence with a well-placed nick. To add to it all, the cold was digging in deeper to his poikilothermic blood, making him sluggish. Not the best situation he’d been in.

Then again, having gone up against Satan himself with a pre-teen antichrist just barely come into his powers, things could be a lot worse.

Xaphan bridged the gap between them so that his leering face was inches from Crowley’s. The two other corporations tightened their grip. “I do, actually. And the best part is,” he touched the tip of the blade to Crowley’s cheek, prickling hot along his skin, “I’ve got specific orders to make it last.”

With that, he cut a quick line across Crowley’s cheek with a flick of the wrist. Crowley bit off a howl as the celestial steel burned at his essence, his very _soul_ , if that were a thing demons had. It was like Falling again, only somehow not nearly as bad and much worse. Black ichor welled from the cut; the blood of demons.

Xaphan smirked. Twirled the knife, set the tip at his jugular. Then:

“Excuse me.”

Crowley froze, pain forgotten. Blinking, Xaphan turned around to see a man in a beige housecoat and slippers standing in the snow, illuminated by a sole streetlamp like a halo on blond curls.

“What exactly is going on here?” Aziraphale asked. His eyes were swollen, pajamas rumpled, yet there was a calm, dangerous edge to it that reminded Crowley a bit of Gabriel. He shivered, not entirely from the cold.

“Angel, get out of here – “

“I should think not, my dear,” the ang- the demo- _Aziraphale_ said, clipped as he took a few steps closer.

He had an odd look about him. His expression held that usual puzzled half-frown, vaguely disapproving and too calm for the situation at hand, like when he’d been about to be discorporated via guillotine. His posture, however, held a certain rigid strength, steel-spined composure that opposed the confused tilt to his head. Where Crowley in danger was a serpent, biding his time while coiled to strike, Aziraphale was reminiscent of a lion. Eyeing a prey, holding back on sheer will alone, and ready to pounce at a moment’s notice.

Most demons, when faced with an angel (or variation thereof) one knife-flick from going full Divinity, would cower in fear and run with their literal tail tucked between their legs. Last he checked, Xaphan _wasn’t_ a Lord of Hell, nor a Duke, nor a Marquess. Not even a general manager at that.

But the demon did not back away as Crowley expected. Instead, that ubiquitous grin, sharp and full of teeth in a poor show of enchanting his disguise, grew inexorably wider.

“What a lovely surprise,” he purred, “Hello, poppet. Miss me already?”

Crowley, who had been working out how best to get Aziraphale out of this mess, felt his already slow mind come to a grinding halt.

 _Poppet_. _Miss me. Oh, fuck, no._ The way Xaphan leered at Aziraphale like a rare steak – the way Aziraphale held himself as if ready for an attack in response – confirmed all suspicions.

“You _bassstard,_ ” Crowley hissed, “ _I’ll kill you!”_

Xaphan smirked at him. “Look who’s quick.”

Aziraphale, to his credit while facing what was clearly a primary abuser from Hell, did not so much as blink. “I’m going to have to ask you release him.”

“Sorry, sweetheart, I’m under orders,” Xaphan drawled. Aziraphale flinched at the endearment, ever so imperceptibly. The two side demons slammed Crowley back against the bin when he fought to tear from their grip.

He gasped as pain cracked through his head. Stars danced in his eyes. Aziraphale took another step, the air around him crackling.

“Release him!”

“Angel, I’ll be fine. Just get out of here!”

“ _Angel?”_ All three demons let out a horrible cackle. Xaphan eyed Crowley like one appraised cattle, and he did not at all like the sick gleam in his eyes. “Fuck, that’s rich. He doesn’t know, does he?”

There was something about the way he and Aziraphale were glaring each other down that made Crowley feel like he was missing some vital piece of the puzzle.

“Yes,” Aziraphale grit, clearly pained and forcing it down, “He is aware I am Fallen, or at least partially so.”

Xaphan rolled his eyes. “ _Partially._ Load’a horse shit. Should’a worked all the way.”

“You fucking cowards cheated on it!” Crowley snarled. Limbs grew progressively heavier the longer they stood out in the cold, most of his remaining energy drained from the divine cut on his cheek. Whatever he had left in reserve was running escape routes in the background, figuring distracting was best while he tried to get Aziraphale _out of here._ “It didn’t stick, you _moron_ , because it wasn’t a real renouncement!”

Aziraphale’s expression hadn’t changed the whole course of the conversation. He wasn’t looking at Crowley; his eyes were fixed on Xaphan. He’d never seen his friend look close to wanting to kill someone before, but Aizraphale looked downright murderous.

The demon’s coal eyes flicked back and forth between them, delighted. He tipped back his head and laughed.

“This is just too good. You wanna tell ‘im, or should I?”

 _Now_ there was a change; Aziraphale’s fists clenched, shaking with his whole body. Eyes flickered with what could either have been leftover Grace or hellfire. Aziraphale was _furious._ Aziraphale didn’t even get angry at corrupt politicians so much as try to scold them through the telly.

 Crowley swallowed hard. _Calm down, angel, you’re not strong enough to lose it on him. Keep it together._                                                                                                                                        

“Tell me what?”

Blue eyes flicked to him, then away, pained despite the resolve there. Xaphan gestured broadly at Crowley with his arm. _Go on,_ it said.

“It wasn’t cheating,” Aziraphale admitted through clenched teeth. He refused to look at him as everything Crowley knew about the universe imploded, “I…I made the renouncement willingly. It was my choice to Fall.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ONE MORE CLIFFHANGAR also I know things seem a little confusing right now, I promise it’ll get cleared up in the next chapter  
> In my (albeit lax) search for demons, I came across Xaphan, who is the ‘keeper of hell’s furnace’, which I thought fit pretty well with the demon they sent up for Az’s trial.   
> Title from If You Can't Beat Them by Queen


	10. rumor has it (that you could play dirty)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> WARNING: hey guys I know i’ve been lax about warning when there are Hell flashbacks but this chapter starts off with one, I wouldn’t go so far as to call it graphic but it is more in-depth that others (and if I should tag this story with any sort of graphic tag let me know!) also some of the dialouge between Zaphan and Azi is a little creepy ok go forth and read now

_ Walls in Hell, not unlike time, were a bit wonky. Aziraphale was never sure if there was an actual door to his cell that creaked and groaned when opened, or if it was just his imagination playing another horrific trick. Or if he was even  _ in  _ a cell. _

_ The fact was, his ears picked up the telltale screech of metal-on-metal through the echoing screams somewhere outside the room, and then a wonderous, familiar voice spoke: _

_ “Angel.” _

_ Aziraphale jerked in the chains that kept him bound in this wretched place, glowing red sigils on stygian iron that held his arms wrenched above his head.  _

_ Crowley’s voice was like a balm to his soul, blessed water in the wake of wandering a desert for forty years. He looked up to see his friend and smiled, despite knowing it must look like a right mess given the blood in his mouth. His demon, his black knight in rusted armor, come to rescue him yet again. Like he had in London, and Paris, and Carthage, and Alexandria… _

_ Crowley drew closer, and Aziraphale could have sobbed with relief. Cool fingers brushed his cheek, slipped under his chin. Tilted his head up to meet soft, concerned, coal-black eyes. _

_ The ephemeral bubble of hope in his chest burned like the fucking Hindenburg.  _

_ “Fall for me, angel,” the demon-who-was-not-Crowley cooed, “Fall so we can finally be together. Isn’t that what we want? I’ve seen your desires, sweetheart. We can have an eternity together. Just do this one little thing for me.” _

_ Fighting past the bitter disappointment, Aziraphale shook his head. The frail, wet thing that escaped his throat could barely be classified as a laugh, yet it felt rebellious to do so in the demon’s face. _

_ “You...r-really are quite s-stupid...aren’t y-you?” Aziraphale gasped. Ribs in agony, he sneered despite it with ichor-painted lips, “N-never...he would never as-sk that of me. Get...get your s-sources s-straight.” _

_ The demon’s soft smile slid into a wicked pout; fingers tightened on his neck. ‘Crowley’ melted back into the pointy-haired being that haunted his waking moments. _

_ “Whatever,” Xaphan growled, “S’only a matter of time before you crack. You know how long it’s been since we got a new recruit? You know how  _ badly  _ the Higher-Ups and Lower-Downs want this? Lucky me got all the time and resources I need.” _

_ Aziraphale shivered. Time was certainly a factor working against him, when one was an eternal, immortal being incapable of dying by the normal means. Even the hellfire they used wasn’t enough to  _ truly  _ incapacitate him, although he’d been working on a plan to get his hands on some in case a rescue never came.  _

_ Better dead than down here until the next War. _

_ Xaphan continued. “They want  _ you _ , poppet. Only reason  _ he’s _ still alive is leverage, and I can make that change. You wanna see torture? You ain’t seen nothin’ yet.” Xaphan’s grip tightened further, pulling their heads together until cracked lips brushed against the shell of the angel’s ear, “And unlike you, I ain’t got orders to keep him alive. What’s it gonna be?” _

_ His blood ran cold;  _ he  _ was clearly  _ Crowley _. Aziraphale grit his teeth (Heaven, but he hadn’t know  _ those  _ could hurt as well). His wings, spread out and pinned against rough stone, ached beyond belief; every inch of him echoed that sentiment. His stomach recoiled at the thought of Crowley being forced to endure the same, or worse, dead and dying before his eyes... _

You’re already halfway there _ , a dark, insinuating voice in the back of his head whispered,  _ What’s a little further?

_ In the end, it wasn’t as hard a choice as he’d always imagined. _

_ Xaphan smiled, seeing the resignation in the angel’s eyes. _

Oh, dear Lord, forgive me...

* * *

 

“No…” Gold eyes were wide in disbelief, terrified and stunned and oh-so hurt, “Angel no...tell me you’re joking.”

The admission had clearly shaken his friend to the core. Aziraphale tore his gaze away from Crowley, unable to stomach the betrayal on the face of one who, by all means, probably no longer loved him. And that was...fine. He deserved that.

But for all his righteous fury, he felt the brave front slipping. “I’m afraid not, my dear.”

“Aw, what a treat,” Xaphan sneered, and oh, but Aziraphale could have throttled him in that moment, “Love a bit of drama, me. But, let’s get back to business. Someone wants  _ you  _ dead.” He pointed the knife back at Crowley with a little eyebrow waggle, advancing on the demon whose mouth still hung slack-jawed. His cronies forced Crowley to his knees, causing him to hiss as thin jeans dampened with the frost. Left exposed too long, this sort of cold could kill him - that is, if Xaphan didn’t first.

Aziraphale pulled Xaphan roughly back by the shoulder. Imaginary flames coursed through him from where he touched the demon, long-withheld memories of fingers painting with hellfire over his skin. He shivered, but held tight, relishing the look of shock on the demon’s face.  _ Didn’t think I’d stand up to you, hm?  _ For all he cared, it could have been Gabriel whose vessel he attacked. Aziraphale was utterly _ through _ with the assumption that he would stand by and watch while someone hurt Crowley.

Black eyes blinked before Xaphan shoved off his hand. He brandished the knife at him, pointed loosely at his throat.

“Careful, sweetheart,” he growled, “I don’t wanna have to find a reason to hurt you again. You’re one of us now.” 

Celestial steel didn’t harm angels as it would a demon, but since none of them knew just how far he’d Fallen, there was no telling how badly it could hurt Aziraphale. It was just as likely an empty threat as it was a declaration of intent to kill.

He fixed Xaphan with a glare that could have leveled Jerusalem. “Be that as it may, my statement stands. Let him go, and I may consider letting you live.”

The demon laughed again, oily and insinuous. 

“Woah, easy there, poppet. Let’s drop the whole hero act you got goin’ on. I think we both know you can’t hurt me. Not how this works, remember? Or do I need to show you again?” 

Xaphan reached out with his ungloved hand to brush the backs of his fingers against Aziraphale’s cheek, a cold mockery of a loving gesture. The former Principality stiffened; Crowley hissed weakly.  Later, neither of them would be able to recount exactly  _ what _ came next.

Several things happened at once.

Aziraphale’s left arm came up and twisted around the one holding a knife to his throat. This caused Xaphan to drop the blade, which the once-angel then caught smoothly with his right in a move that could only have come from one of Crowley’s terrible action movies. Before the demon had time to react, or even register his shock at the whiplash power change, the knife had slid between his ribs as a hand pressed against his chest.

It would be wise to acknowledge that Azirapale had never smote anyone before; never really had cause to, as that was always left to archangels like Sandalphon, and besides, he hadn’t the stomach for it anyway. He’d always made sure to clear out before a smiting with the knowledge that he would be powerless to help.

 However, that hadn’t stopped his mind from conjuring awful things about what smiting was like. He’d always imagined to be a storm - the raw, visceral power of the natural world come to take its toll, ozone and salt and wine-dark wind coalescing into a singularity of the Almighty’s will, trumpets and lions and bleeding eardrums,  _ Be not afraid!  _ turned on its head into very, very afraid, until there was nothing but warm sunshine in the aftermath. 

Smiting was nothing like that.

Perhaps it was different for a demon than a human or an angel. Perhaps it was that the being doing the smiting may no longer be considered an angel at all. In any case, where golden light poured quasar-bright off his fingertips, the physical being - the  _ occult  _ being - was ripped to bits atom by atom in a show of power that could have torn nebulas apart. It was a black hole, grasping onto the sliver of light (or in this case, Xaphan) and sucking it down into the depths until the argument could be made it had never existed at all. There were no trumpets, but the ground did shake in silent rapture as the demon once known as Xaphan let out a horrible, soul-wrenching scream, eyes alight with the silver-tainted Grace of a half-Fallen angel, and was torn clean off this (or any) plane of existence.

When all was said and done, some indeterminate time later, Aziraphale cracked open his eyes to find himself face-down in the snow. Once again, everything  _ hurt _ , only now in the way that came from overexerting an already weakened vessel. His skin buzzed in the aftermath, veins thrumming with leftover energy, and he had the faintest feeling his hair was on fire. As lethargic as Hell had made him,  _ nothing  _ could compare to the exhaustion that settled all at once in his bones after destroying a being’s very essence.

Dimly, he registered the soft  _ crunch  _ of rushed footsteps through the snow before a hand was pulling him back by the shoulders. 

“Angel,” Crowley gasped, blue at the lips and teeth chattering, “Ang - Aziraphale, fuck, are you okay? Say something, Aziraphale, anything,  _ please. _ ”

Two long, thudding heartbeats as the words filtered through muffled ears. Then:

“I believe,” Aziraphale groaned, thick and slow as cold honey, “You owe me one, my dear.”

And then he promptly passed out.

* * *

 

For a brief, heart-stopping moment, Crowley feared that this time Aziraphale really  _ had  _ discorporated. 

Smoking slightly, hair crisped at the ends, pale as death and just as cold to boot, only the electrifying buzz of energy signified that the vessel was still active. This was the second time in four months the angel ( _ shit, no, not anymore _ ) had passed out on him, and the whole abject terror thing really was getting a bit old. Shivering hard enough that his fingers shook, Crowley managed to get them to the warm skin of Aziraphale’s neck, where his thready pulse determined his friend was very much still alive. Smiting must have taken whatever strength he’d built back up and knocked it all down like some sick game of Jenga. 

_ Fuck. Fuck fuck fuck fuck -  _

Hauling Aziraphale into his arms, weak from the cold and from the injury that would no doubt scar on his cheek, Crowley felt his heart beating a rapid tattoo against his ribs in the aftermath. Adrenaline coursed through his veins, a contact high from the sheer proximity to such an awesome display of power.

He’d never been witness to a smiting before, and now he was grateful for that. He’d also never been fearful of Aziraphale before, and yet in that moment, the colliding energies of a hundred dying stars tearing a fellow demon to shreds…

Crowley shuddered. The worst of it wasn’t even the cloying scent of brimstone in the air, or the choked-off scream just before Xaphan ceased to be. No, it was the memory of Aziraphale’s eyes, dark blue and deadset with apocalyptic fury, just before creating the stain on people’s memories that used to be Xaphan. The soft, angelic being of ineffable Light he’d known for millennia would never have used his powers to  _ kill _ something. The tortured former angel who hung somewhere between Heaven and Hell, however, seemed like he hadn’t given it a second thought.

_ Oh, angel, what have you done? _

It took most all his remaining strength to miracle them to the safety (see:  _ warmth _ ) of his flat, where the demon unceremoniously dumped his unconscious friend onto the couch. Aziraphale did not so much as stir; curled up against the back of it, the scene made an uncomfortably familiar tableau, and he had to look away.

Crowley hastily stripped off his sodden clothes the human way, forgetting, for a moment, that he normally miracled them away. Or could have miracled them dry. Or any number of things he could have done, the ideas of which were being drowned out in an endless litany of  _ Aziraphale Fell, Aziraphale Fell, Aziraphale Fell - _

_ Stop it,  _ he scolded himself, finding comfort in a ratty t-shirt and black flannel pants with a snap of his fingers and the last dregs of energy,  _ He’s still Aziraphale. Whatever happens next, you’re in this with him.  _

Because despite it all, the pain and fear of seeing him like that, the faint sense of mourning for who his friend used to be, the fact of the matter was Aziraphale had smote for  _ him.  _ Crowley may be an oblivious idiot, but even he recognized the importance of that fact.

“S’gonna be okay,” he mumbled to himself yet again, and  _ Satan _ , but history really did repeat itself, didn’t it? Crowley shook his head before grabbing a thick blanket and flopping, head-to-feet opposite Aziraphale, next to him on the couch that miraculously found itself big enough for both of them. He was out before his head hit the decorative pillow.

The once-angels slept, and for once, they did not dream.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Author’s note: I thought stygian iron was like a Thing but I may have ripped off rick riordan sorry not sorry  
> Also, this chapter is SO far off from what I had planned when I sat down to write it, so hope you like it? Dedicated to my good friend S, for kicking my butt into finishing it  
> Also also, I LOVED reading all of your comments from last chapter! Sorry for not getting to them yet, hopefully I can, it's just been a busy week. We're out of angst central, y'all


	11. nobody left to believe

_ Aziraphale was dying. _

_ No, not quite. Dying had an end; dying would be a mercy. This was far, far worse than death.  _

_ Aziraphale was Falling. Choking on sulphur, burning hotter than Eta Carinae, rending Grace and ashing his wings as her Love was prised from his chest, leaving him so cold it torrefied, so despairingly alone, yearning for a warmth he could never return to - _

_ And then it was over in an instant. Aziraphale pried open his eyes, stuttered out lungfuls of cool, noxious air. He was on the ground,grime-covered and filthy; his arms were no longer twisted above his head. _

_ Everything hurt, as it had for so long, but the pain was no worse than before.  _

_ With ringing ears, Aziraphale could hear the rasping voice of another demon, with whom Xaphan was arguing. From what little filtered in through the pounding in his head, he got the faint impression he was being released. _

_ They jerked him up, led him from the cell, and despite a resounding fear of the unknown, it was overlaid by a sharp, cloying relief: _

_ He had not been lost. _

* * *

 

(He had not known what was to come.)

* * *

 

Aziraphale draped a heavy comforter over Crowley’s lax form, pressing a lingering hand to his cheek. The demon lay still as stone where Aziraphale had tucked him into bed, having removed him from his sprawl on the couch, breathing slow and heavy and deep.  Being out in the cold for so long had to have done a number on the former serpent. 

The exhausted lines crinkling his brow had smoothed out in sleep. Their vessels did not age, and yet Crowley looked years younger at rest, six millennia of constantly looking over his shoulder melting away. Three days the demon had been unconscious, while Aziraphale himself had awoken after a measly twenty-eight hours post passing out (since the incident with the mirror, since their falling out, since he’d almost lost Crowley again, since he’d  _ killed _ ). Probably also at fault was that Crowley hadn’t been resting as he tended to during the whole of Aziraphale’s stay in his flat, on guard for the attack that had finally come.

Upon waking, groggy and disoriented, Aziraphale had stumbled to Crowley’s room, skin itching with the remnants of awe-inspiring power.  He’d dug out the clothes hidden away in a trunk by the bed, blue button down and baggy trousers miracled whole and clean by his dearest demon. 

Changing into his old clothes had felt blessedly familiar. It was safe, comfortable, like coming home. Buttons done up to the wrist, to the throat, layering chainmail against the world. Armor donned the same way Crowley kept his glasses firmly affixed on the bridge of his nose. 

He’d splashed cold water on his face to wake himself further before attending to the cuts on his knuckles, dabbing antiseptic cream and winding bandages in lieu of the miracle he wasn’t sure he could attain. Silver shards still littered the counter, which Aziraphale swept up with a torn page from a magazine. 

A sliver of glass had caught his reflection. Blue eyes still; he wondered when that would change.  _ If  _ it would change.

Checking in on Crowley once more to assure himself he was not needed, Aziraphale had put the kettle on, settled into a kitchen chair, and thought. Fingers drummed an anxious rhythm on his knee as the angel ( _ not an angel, oh, Lord _ ) tried to calm his racing mind. The aftermath of expending so much energy

 Sitting still wasn’t an option; everything from his hair to his nails felt staticky, electric, like he’d licked his finger and stuck it in a wall socket. Iron coated his tongue, the back of his teeth; remnants from the smiting that had been, to the best of his knowledge, a final pulse of angelic Grace. An atomic blast before the nuclear winter set in.

Because, for whatever inexplicable, ineffable,  _ fucked up  _ reason, Aziraphale was not entirely demonic. 

Yet. 

By all rights, he should have been. It had taken nearly a month’s recovery and the shock of manifesting ashen wings to remember, but now that he had, the terrible, cloying events of Falling, of making the Renouncement, wouldn’t go away. The memories bounced around his skull until he thought it would drive him mad. Aziraphale could still feel the echoes of having Her favor ripped from soul, the cold and the hunger and the agony of yearning for the Light. The righteous, fearsome grief of Heaven losing another of their Host. The Renouncement itself felt like it’d been branded on his ribs.

_ I, Aziraphale...do so renounce the Light and Kingdom of God... _

And then it had gone. Not entirely, yet not so much that they had seen the signs for what they were. Enough that Aziraphale had managed to deny the whole thing. He had not Fallen so far as to be bound to Hell, but he was still Lost.

Aziraphale had shook his head. Sitting wouldn’t do him any good; he was far too keyed up to do much besides panic. He needed to talk it through, to let the dam break and flood the air with anxious thoughts, to be validated in his utter confusion and frustration at the world.

He needed - 

He needed  _ Crowley;  _ needed the stability of his pervasive presence, a calming voice, strong hands,  ‘ _ we’ll figure it out, angel, never fear’ _ . But Crowley was asleep, and probably would be for a while longer, and Aziraphale was alone.  

He’d decided the best course of action was to clear his head. So he tucked the drowsing demon tight in bed once more, left a crisp note on an end table in the living room explaining his vague whereabouts, and that he had taken Crowley’s mobile in the off chance he awoke before Aziraphale returned. Pressed a gentle kiss to a pale forehead, an apology.

And he walked.

An excess of nervous energy thrumming under his skin ostensibly translated to unlimited stamina. Aziraphale wandered through St. Jame’s Park, and then across to Hyde Park, and then meandered to Battersea. He strolled along the banks of the Thames for a time - distant, dazed, searching for answers. Towards some semblance of purpose, but if even God knew what it was, She was silent on the matter. Like with all things.

He walked through crowded streets to the outskirts of London, along narrow asphalt that bled into the M25 and led out into quiet country lanes. He walked through deserted backroads, grass and bluebells, oaks and ash and stinging nettles. All the while trying to stitch the puzzle pieces all together.

Somewhere around Chorleywood, Aziraphale realized where his mindless feet were carrying him, and settled down the beaten path towards Oxfordshire, hands finally stilled in his pockets. 

* * *

 

Adam Young was eleven and a half, and after a particularly interesting summer, knew he had the whole world ahead of him. Being the once and former Antichrist tended to give one a little perspective. Sure, it’d been utterly terrifying, and downright ridiculous come to think of it. But it’d done loads more for confidence than any motivational speech could. Adam knew he could be anything in the world if he wanted it.

Right now, he was considering a career in professional wedding planning.

“I think the sage green,” the former son of Satan said decisively, with the air of someone who dabbled in interior design as well as weddings, “Looks good with your hair. Both of you.”

Newt squinted at the color swatches in a book meant for place settings, which was completely separate from the swatches for the flowers, and the carpet, and the bridesmaid’s dresses. Of which there were two, and one was a reluctant Pepper, God help them all.

“Really? I thought maybe the lavender.”

From the armchair next to him, Anathema made a derisive noise in the back of her throat. Most of the wedding, she’d agreed, would be down to Newt and any offered opinions from the Them, as she didn’t care much for things like what sort of bird the napkins should be folded into. All the nitty gritty was her end. Hunched over the address book balanced precariously on one knee, she looked far too absorbed in finding an officiant to bother with colors.

Except for lavender. Apparently.

Newt  tapped the color swatch. “Sage it is then.”

Adam leaned back, satisfied, and went for another biscuit. It was a cold, grey day in Tadfield, the weak-tea light of another snow flurry filtered over the white grounds. He hadn’t  _ meant  _ to make the weather so perfectly Winter. Honest. Probably some side effect from Armageddon - not that he was complaining. 

It was the sort of day that people took to tucked in their houses with fires crackling merrily in the grate. So when Adam caught sight of someone walking down the lane towards Jasmine Cottage, he thought maybe R.P. Tyler had come to complain about the iceball-sized hole in his fence. Then his eyes widened as he realized R.P. Tyler didn’t have wild blond hair, and was entirely too human, and therefore wouldn’t be wandering around in nearly-freezing weather in just a button down and an oatmeal cardigan. 

In fact, there were very few human-shaped beings who would.

“We still have to find a secular judge to officiate,” Anathema muttered, oblivious to the way Adam was craning his neck, “Hard to come by in these parts. I was thinking maybe - “

“Aziraphale?”

“I said  _ secular _ ,” Anathema dismissed, “An angel is definitely not secular.”

“No, I mean  _ Aziraphale. _ ” Adam pointed to the garden window, where the angel was gently unlatching their gate. He scrambled off the couch as Anathema and Newt whipped around.

“Aziraphale!” The angel startled as he threw open the front door. Adam bolted into the garden towards him, dog yelping at his heels, and barrelled into him. 

Mr. Young kept telling him eleven-and-a-half-year-olds were too mature to go ‘round hugging everyone all the time, but Adam thought that was silly when it was someone you cared about. Plus, last he’d heard, Aziraphale had been desperately ill, and he’d been worried. They’d made  _ cards _ . 

“Hello, Adam,” Aziraphale said, a smile clear in his voice as the former Antichrist buried a head in his chest. “Ah! Yes, hello to you, Dog. Oh, oh no, mind the trousers, please, there’s a dear. Slobber is very unbecoming.”

Warm hands patted Adam’s shoulders; Adam wasn’t sure if it was an angel thing or not, but Aziraphale always gave the best hugs. Crowley was lanky and boney and never let anyone hug him, except when the Them had him distracted and Adam sneak-attacked him to make him splutter. Besides, according to him, angels didn’t hug, and demons  _ certainly  _ didn’t, so it had to be an Aziraphale thing.

Only…

Adam pulled back, frowning. Anathema had been teaching him some witch stuff over the winter holiday, and he prided himself on aura-reading. And there was definitely something...off about Aziraphale’s. Different. He was having a hard time getting any sort of read, come to think of it.

“Are you still sick?” Adam accused, “We sent cards, you know. Did you get them? Only, I didn’t think angels could  _ get  _ sick, and I thought maybe you were dying. We were all pretty worried. Wensley’s gran died in America, and they sent cards, but I didn’t know if angels died either. You’re not dying, are you?”

Aziraphale offered him a wan smile that suggested no, he certainly wasn’t dying, although perhaps that wasn’t the worst suggestion. Adam did not like it one bit.

“No, I’m not,” he assured, not very assuringly, “I did get your cards - thank you ever so much, dear boy. They were wonderful.”

It didn’t slip Adam’s attention that he had dodged half the question. “Then...what’s wrong?”

Aziraphale didn’t look keen on answering. Thankfully, he was granted a stay of execution when Anathema bustled out of the cottage after them. “Get inside, both of you. It’s freezing! Aziraphale, did you  _ walk  _ here? In your state?”

“ _ What _ state?”

“Yes, I’m afraid I did, rather,” admitted Aziraphale, letting Adam tug him into the cottage’s warmth,  “I hope it’s not terribly rude of me to pop in on such short notice. I wasn’t aware that I was coming until...well. I sort of ended up here.”

“Only if you tell me what the  _ hell  _ is going on.” Despite the anger underlaid by clear worry and a touch of fear, Anathema sat him gently on the armchair she had occupied a moment ago and went to fetch another mug from the kitchen. “I’ve been trying to get in contact with Crowley for  _ days.  _ He hasn’t answered a single text or call. I thought maybe…” she trailed off with a hesitant flick of her eyes between Aziraphale and Newt, and then shook her head, “Well, I’m sure by now you know his idiot plan to summon an archangel. When he didn’t respond, I thought he’d been fucking, er, discorporated - excuse me, Adam - “

“No problem.”

“But you wouldn’t be this calm if he was,” Anathema finished, setting down the steaming mug with a nod that very pointedly said,  _ drink,  _ “Even though something is clearly wrong.  _ Walked here all the way from London -  _ unbelievable. So. Spill.”

Adam watched the angel take a tiny sip with hands that held a slight tremble, concern wriggling in his gut. There was definitely more to all this than he or Anathema had let on. Adam had a natural proclivity towards solving puzzles, but there were too many missing pieces for him to put anything concrete together.  __ Like where Crowley fit into Aziraphale’s illness, or why the demon had tried summoning an - archangel? And how much did Anathema  _ know  _ that she hadn’t told him, because adults didn’t like ‘worrying’ kids, even if those kids were perfectly alright with having supernatural entities for friends.

Newt, for his part, stayed quiet. There wasn’t much to be said on his end.

After a pregnant pause, Aziraphale took a juddery breath. Pale fingers tightened around the mug. 

“Do you remember,” he murmured, “Seeing my wings? The night you…”

Anathema nodded. Adam bit back,  _ the night you what?  _ “Hard to forget.”

“And I asked if they were still - angelic, so to speak.”

“Aziraphale.” Anathema leaned forward, dead serious behind wide spectacles,  “What happened?”

Aziraphale took another sip of his tea. Swirled the mug, pensive, a faraway look to clouded eyes. “I shouldn’t have expected you to know.  _ Crowley  _ didn’t even catch it, not that I fault him. They were rather grimy, I will admit, so I can understand...you see, dear, demons who have kept their wings cannot change the color. When they Fall, their wings burn. Grow back in all black with the next molt. Or so Gabriel said.”

His voice broke in the heavy stillness. This was all wrong, Adam thought. Angels weren’t supposed to be sad;  _ Aziraphale  _ wasn’t supposed to sound so...lost. Adrift. Scared and sad and resigned all at once, and there wasn’t a single thing he could do to help. It was all rather frightening for one who hadn’t had much to grieve in his life.

Next to him, Newt nodded sagely, even though Adam knew he had no idea what was going on. Anathema frowned; Aziraphale continued.

“Before the Fall, an angel’s wings exude their Grace. It’s not a color on any known spectrum of light that can be seen on Earth. To the human eye, this color can only be processed as white, and not a shade darker.”

Adam watched, feeling suddenly ill, as Anathema’s eyes went round with horror. “Yours were grey.”

“Mine are grey,” Aziraphale confirmed. The tea, only a few minutes old, had stopped steaming. “Singed, I should think.”

“Oh,” Anathema gasped, “Oh, no. You didn’t - ”

“I’m afraid so,” the angel, whose status as an angel was becoming less certain, said grimly.

It was in that moment that Adam realized what was so different about Aziraphale’s aura:

He no longer had one. 

It was enough for fear to tighten hard in Adam’s chest. “Will someone  _ please  _ explain what’s going on?”

The adults all turned to look at him, startled, having seemingly forgotten the presence of an eleven-year-old at the tea table. Adam noticed a sheen to Aziraphale’s eyes and almost felt bad for raising his voice. Almost. He shook his head and continued.

“Look, I dunno what’s happening right now, but I feel like there are things you lot aren’t telling me. Just because I’m eleven doesn’t mean I can’t understand bad things happening. We saved the world together; I thought you’d be able to trust me enough after that.” Then, softer: “We’re friends. Friends trust each other.”

“Oh, Adam,” Aziraphale murmured, “I never meant to imply we didn’t trust you. It’s just that - well, there are some things that even adults don’t wish to talk about.”

And he understood that; he did. When Adam’s aunt had gotten cancer, his father never talked to him about it. Mum had used flowery, rose-tinted explanations for everything, and Adam hadn’t the heart to ask questions. 

But this was different, he felt. This was about angels and demons and magic, the stuff no one else knew about save for a witch, a former antichrist, a psychic, and two passably inept human men. Adam was very well one of few people who could understand whatever was happening in full.

“You don’t have to if it’s personal. But if I can help, I want to.”

Newt, helpful and polite as ever, excused himself to make more tea. All three suspected he wouldn’t be seen for a good while. 

Aziraphale sighed and glanced at Anathema. “Well...you know I’ve been ill lately…”

So he spoke, with occasional interjections from Anathema, and Adam listened. How after the stopped the apocalypse, Heaven wasn’t happy, and fired Aziraphale by transferring him to Hell; how the demons were a bad, bad lot, that they hurt him. Everything that had happened with the archangel and the fire demon, which Anathema paled at. The bare bones of what it meant to Fall, and how they didn’t know how far he’d gone yet. How he didn’t know what Crowley would say when he woke up.

 It was clearly a watered down version. That was alright; the more Adam listened, the more he felt like being sick, and wasn’t so sure if he wanted the full story anyway. When it was done, Aziraphale’s hands clenched on his knees as he awaited a reaction, Adam threw himself at his friend again.

“I’m sorry,” he mumbled into a cardigan that smelled of lightning and coffee, and a hint of something funny, like rotten eggs, “It wasn’t fair.”

Aziraphale sighed and hugged him tight. “The world rarely is, my boy.”

From the corner of his eye, Adam saw Newt walk in through the doorway with the kettle, stop, and turn around once more. When they parted, Adam felt a fierce sense of purpose burning in his gut.

“What if we did research?” he said, the beginnings of an idea catching like wildfire,  “Anathema has  _ loads  _ of old books, maybe they can help? It’s been six thousand years. There has to have been  _ something  _ similar that went on, right?”

Aziraphale and Anathema both looked thoughtful at that. 

“I suppose…”

“Couldn’t hurt. Let me see what I have.” Anathema swept off the couch in a tide of velvet and crinoline in the direction of her study. 

Just then, the forgotten mobile in Aziraphale’s trouser pocket buzzed, startlingly him. He let out a surprised “Oh!” as Crowley’s face appeared on the slim screen. It took him several botched attempts to answer before Adam stepped in to slide the green circle to the right.

“Crowley?”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> THIS CHAPTER. This chapter was a BEAST to write. I had a rough draft a week after the last one, sat unhappy with it for another week, and then spent three more weeks rewriting it over and over again until I just split it in two and changed it. GAH. So that's why the delay (so sorry about that, hopefully won't happen again).  
> I'm not 100% happy with how it turned out, but it's definitely satisfactory to how the earlier drafts were.  
> ALSO: check out this amazing [fanart](https://archiveofourown.org/works/20072239) of chapter 8 by DarkPilot! It's so gorgeous and lovely and exactly what I was imagining and I can't thank them enough, please go give them love for it! And come hang out with me on [tumblr](http://sometimeseffable.tumblr.com/) for ficlets and writing updates!


	12. one day i'm gonna be free

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Author highly suggests listening to "Somebody to Love" while/after reading...

_ The ground was cool under his belly, while the air was boiling and tasted of soot. Crowley had snuck into Hell the back way, sliding silent past sigils, guards, and tortured souls. For all his flash, he’d always been better at reconnaissance, dabbling a bit as a double-agent in the Cold War. Ventilation shafts were remarkably easy to navigate as a snake. _

_ He slid down, further and further into the pits, to where the most highly-guarded cells were kept. The innate sixth sense warbled in his mind, wavering like a plucked string back and forth over its correct note. It clicked into place as he passed one particularly well-guarded cage, hovering cool and sweet near angelic Grace. _

_ Crowley shifted back into human form. A solitary figure stood in the dying light of embers, hunched, emaciated, and emanating misery. _

_ "Aziraphale?” he whispered, harsh in the echoing silence, “Aziraphale!” _

_ A twitch of his shoulders, a jerk of platinum against sooty brick. The chains pinning his wings in place rattled, and Crowley wanted to  _ melt _ them. _

_ “Angel, we have to go,” Crowley pleaded. Hand outstretched through the bars, offering salvation. He wouldn’t leave his angel here to suffer. He couldn’t. Hell was not allowed to take the only light he had left. _

_ Aziraphale turned then. His eyes were black, halo gone dark with rot, broken in the center into two jagged ends above his head. _

_ "I don’t think I’ll be going back, my dear.” _

Crowley jolted awake, flinging upright, then immediately regretted the action.

Having slept through most of the 19th century, Crowley was well acquainted with the sleep-crusted, sour-mouthed, horribly disoriented after effects of being unconscious for more than forty-eight hours. Knowing this didn’t make the experience any better.

Blood thundering in his ears, mind sleep-fogged and terror-struck, it took a moment to realize he was not in Hell, but in his bedroom. Through the drawn curtains, he could see a hazy sun peeking low through the clouds over London.

_ Satan,  _ how long had he been out?

A shaky undercurrent of panic thrummed through his veins. Images of white lightning and sharp teeth and a hundred eyes, black as pitch, flashed through his foggy mind. Crowley found he couldn’t separate nightmare from reality.

“Azir - “ he choked, tongue heavy and jaw stiff, “Azri’ph’l?”

He rather more slithered than slid out from under the covers, dropping to the floor in an ungraceful heap. Legs wobbled under his weight as if he’d changed from serpent to man again; his head felt only marginally better. His cheek throbbed where celestial steel had scored a cut along the bone. Crowley reached up and felt the rough edge of a bandage; someone had dressed the wound with care.

He stumbled into the living room and called, “Aziraphale!”

No answer. The flat was dark, cold and empty. There was no angel reading in the corner, no mug of tea curling steam into the grey marble ceiling, no book half-read on the table. Crowley reached out with the sixth, celestial sense, searching for the wavering chord of Aziraphale’s presence nearby. Ice set in his blood as he found only empty air.

_ “Shit.”  _

Crowley whirled to make a dash for the door, clocked his hip on the forgotten end table, and fell, dramatic and entirely unheroic. Groaning in his mild daze, it was an act of pure providence that the crisply folded note set neat on the end table saw fit to flutter down next to the cursing, panicked demon.

It was almost a sign meant for him. It did, after all, have his name on it.

_ Dear Crowley, _

_ Out for a walk. I do hope you’ll rest for the duration of my leave, but if not, I have your mobile with me for emergencies.  _

_ I know you must be upset with me. I wish I had answers. We should talk once I return. _

_ Yours eternally, _

_ Aziraphale _

Paper crunched in his grip. Crowley swallowed down the hot, ugly anger that ripped through the breaking tide of relief.

He could recall, now, the sick feeling of betrayal as Aziraphale admitted to having made a renouncement. Not that Falling itself would ever change his opinion on his friend, but that Aziraphale had  _ known _ , and hadn’t told him, stung. Even worse was the utter disgust in the reflection as Aziraphale denounced being Fallen.

_ Wretched. A disgrace. Unloveable.  _

Crowley considered - very briefly - leaving things as they were. Waiting for Aziraphale to return from Someone knew where and then having it out in the flat, on familiar ground, where he had the upper hand. 

The nagging concern that itched ever-present in the back of his mind won out. Crowley went to the office and dialed his own number. 

Anxiety ratched higher as the mobile went through to the last ring. Finally, Aziraphale picked up.

_ "Crowley?" _

"Are you okay?" he demanded, “Where are you?”

_ “I’m fine, my dear. I wound up in Tadfield, of all places.” _ He laughed nervously, “ _ Did you get my note?” _

“ _ Yes,  _ I got your bloody note! Only after waking up and not being able to find you - you realize how that looked, yeah? I thought Gabriel had come back and fucking finished the job!” 

His voice shook with barely-tempered fury. It was misplaced, and he knew that damn well, but it’d been one Hell of a month, and Crowley’s control was starting to slip. To be fair, nothing Aziraphale had done in the past week had even remotely helped that. He took a breath, and tried to contain the venom in his mouth.

“Stay there. I’m coming to get you.”

_ “Oh, a-alright. Do drive - “ _

But Crowley had already slammed the receiver down, cracking the plastic and splintering the wood of his desk. He miracled the keys to the Bentley into his hand and stalked off on trembling legs.

* * *

 

“ - carefully,” Aziraphale finished to no one. He’d heard the  _ click  _ of the call ending just before. The droning dial tone felt cruel and mocking as his stomach twisted with worry.

Adam had, in their haste, accidently set the mobile to speakerphone, and so the whole of Jasmine Cottage had heard everything. He and Anathema were silent for a long moment.

Finally, Adam asked hesitantly, “Are you two getting a divorce?”

Azriaphale found he didn’t know how to answer that.

* * *

 

Forty minutes into what should have been an hour drive, just as dusk was beginning to settle over Tadfield, the Bentley pulled up outside Jasmine Cottage. Its driver did not get out.

Aziraphale said his goodbyes inside the gated garden. Adam had been called home by his mother shortly after Crowley had hung up, and had left with the promise to keep researching at home on his computer. He’d made both Aziraphale and Anathema swear to keep him in the loop from now on, which they did, under the private agreement of being allowed to withhold certain details should they arise. 

In the garden, Aziraphale thanked Anathema profusely. He also expressed, with a shaky smile, an entirely too cheerful reminder that he would absolutely see them at the wedding in a few weeks. To his mild shock, Anathema, never one for physical displays of affection, hugged him as tightly as Adam had. 

“Call me if you need anything,” she whispered. Aziraphale squeezed her back and nodded.

Newt passed him a small business card as they shook hands. “Mum’s divorce lawyer,” he muttered, still a bit confused on everything, “Just in case.”

Aziraphale offered him a weak thank-you as he walked toward the gate. From here, he could see the tense line of Crowley’s profile, staring straight forward. He hadn’t even looked at the cottage, despite being as well-acquainted with Anathema as was possible for the demon. He didn’t say a word as Aziraphale slid into the passenger seat. The Bentley peeled away from the curb with an unnerving squeal, the tinkling of piano keys drifting hauntingly from the radio. 

“Hello,” Aziraphale said.

Crowley grunted mildly. “You’re looking well.”

“Feeling much better as well, thank you. A full day’s sleep does that.” Aziraphale eyed the bandage marring Crowley’s left cheek. Guilt panged in his chest. “And you? How are you now, my dear? I admit, I expected you to sleep much longer than that.”

“Yeah, I noticed.” The words were short, clipped. Ice daggers chipping a hole in his heart.

Aziraphale cleared his throat. Fingers tapped his lap nervously as he glanced out at the setting sun. “I should apologize.”

“What for?” Matchstick fingers gripped the wheel tighter. The speedometer crept upward a tick. “Not telling me you Fell, or bangin’ on about how  _ disgusting  _ it is to be Fallen once you noticed?”

Aziraphale winced. “I shouldn’t have said that.“

Crowley gestured wildly, lips twisted in a mocking sneer. “No, please, tell me more about how _disgraceful_ it is to be a demon. _Unloveable_ , wasn’t that it? Should’ve told me you’d been _tainted_ like the rest of us earlier. Would’ve saved a lot of trouble. ”

“I didn’t know,” Aziraphale whispered. Tears crowded the corners of his eyes, hands clutching the edge of his seat to keep from shaking. It wasn’t as if Crowley didn’t have a point. The distance between them yawned, chafing. It seemed neither of them knew how to bridge it.

Aziraphale was struck by the fear that Crowley might not even wish to fix this. Whatever it was. The radio played on.

_ I have spent all my years in believing you _

_ But I just can’t get no relief, Lord… _

Then Crowley sighed, taut shoulders falling like all the fight evaporated at once. It was a bitter resignation that laced his voice.

“It’s okay. Seriously. Whatever happened - consider it done. Let’s move on.”

It certainly did not  _ sound  _ okay, but Aziraphale let it go for the sake of not mucking things up further. “Alright, then. How should we - “

“I did some thinking on the way here,” Crowley interrupted. There was a tension in his jaw, like it’d been wired shut. Whatever he had to say seemed to sit like a hot coal on his tongue. “About the...Renouncement. How to fix it. I’m certain if you call Metatron again, they’ll have to take your case. I know you’re not on the best terms, but it’s the best shot we have.”

It took a moment for the words to sink in. When they did, Aziraphale felt his chest tighten. 

“Oh. Oh, Crowley, I don’t think - “

But Crowley wouldn’t listen, instead earnestly insisting, “It wasn’t a fair Fall. Heaven’s got to know that; Gabriel didn’t even know you  _ made  _ a renouncement, and a renouncement under torture isn’t binding. A forced confession is a forced confession no matter how much you mean it.”

“Crowley,  _ listen -  _ “

“Hell, you’re clearly not even a  _ real  _ demon,” he rambled. Too fast, nearly incoherent with agitation, “She has to see that. No one just Falls halfway; if you’re not a demon, then they’ll forgive you, trust me - “

He stopped with a hand curled tight around his wrist. Dark glass met Aziraphale’s wide blue eyes, softly grieved.

 “I’m not going back to Heaven, Crowley,” Aziraphale told him, forceful and pained, yet touched nonetheless. 

For once, this did nothing to stop the mad plot in its tracks. Crowley turned back to the road, mouth hardened in resolve. 

“You are. It’s your best shot.” 

The speedometer ticked higher. Trees blurred and bled into a dark green oilslick outside the windows. 

Aziraphale bristled a bit at that. “Oh? What if I don’t  _ want  _ to go back to Heaven?” 

“Doesn’t matter what you  _ want _ ,” Crowley snarled right back, shocking them both. It was nastier than he’d ever spoken to his friend before, but there was something in his voice like a dam breaking, and he was loathe to stem the flow, “This is what’s gonna keep you  _ alive,  _ you idiot. You think they’re just gonna let us live after all this? Either side? You smote a fucking demon under orders to kill me. From  _ Gabriel.  _ Just be thankful Hell doesn’t  _ want  _ you to work for them. No, we can work this out. They have to forgive you.”

“And what about you then? Hm? Am I supposed to just - just  _ abandon  _ you to Hell? To be  _ killed,  _ or - or worse? I should certainly think not.”

“Not up to you. We’re calling Metatron, and that’s final.”

Aziraphale stared at him, mouth agape, at a complete loss for words. Numbly, he let his slack fingers slip from gripping Crowley’s wrist. 

In all their years, all the horrid fights and venomous words, all the regrets shattered crystalline at their feet, Crowley had never taken away his autonomy. Crowley  _ tempted _ , Crowley  _ cajoled,  _ Crowley  _ coerced. _ What Crowley did not do was  _ force _ . Every moral failing in the form of forged paperwork and overindulgences had always been, ultimately, Aziraphale’s choice. Never a demonic intervention. Never Crowley’s decision over what he truly wanted. 

The Serpent of Eden, benefactor of Man’s free will, had finally been pushed to the brink.

In the crushing silence, the radio crooned.

_ I just gotta get out of this prison cell, _

_ One day, I’m gonna be free, Lord!  _

“Will you turn that off, please?” Aziraphale spat, at the edge of frustrated tears.

“Bentley picks the music, not me.”

“Well then  _ pull over this wretched car so we can bloody well talk about this. _ ”

Not a moment later, Aziraphale pitched forward as Crowley slammed on the breaks.

“Fine!” the demon barked, throwing up his hands as they squealed to a stop. Miraculously, the Bentley slid over to the side and halfway into the grass. Both of their backs hit the seat with a wheezing  _ ‘oof’ _ . 

“ _ Thank  _ you.” Aziraphale rubbed the spot where he was certain the seat belt had fused with his sternum. “Let’s assume, for a moment, I go along with this idiotic plan of yours. What do you do once I’m...gone, my dear?”

Crowley shrugged, nonchalant and faking it. “Thinking about moving to America. Loads of chaos there; good place to lay low for a century or two. I’ll be fine.” There was a knife-edged sharpness to his voice, a blatant undercurrent of fear that suggested even Crowley didn’t believe that.

Aziraphale felt rage bubble up in his stomach. How  _ dare  _ he? How dare Crowley have the audacity to lie regarding what would be his eventual death?

 “Anthony J. Crowley, I didn’t Fall for you just to abandon you to a pitiful destruction in  _ America! _ ”

The realization of what he’d said hit like a crowbar to the ribs. Aziraphale watched in slow motion as Crowley realized it too, thin bravado cracked, shock bleeding into muted horror. Even the radio froze.

“Tell me you’re lying.” His voice was a strangled, broken thing.

Aziraphale loosed a heavy breath. “They were going to hurt you, Crowley. I - I couldn’t let them.” A tear slipped hot along his cheek. If this was how he would lose Crowley, so be it. No matter the grief tearing at his soul, he would have Fallen again in a heartbeat to spare his dearest friend an eternity of torment.  

He reached out, only for fingers to meet empty air; Crowley jerked his head away, eyes wild and yellow from where the glasses had half slipped down his nose. The expression in them chilled Aziraphale to the bone; it was desperate, pleading, terrified. But more than that, it was unforgiving. It was  _ hateful _ .

“Take it back.”

“I won’t.” Aziraphale’s fingers curled back on themselves, hurt, yet accepting, finally, the dire consequences of the choice he’d made in Hell. Crowley took a shuddering breath and hissed through his teeth.

“Go back to Heaven and  _ take. It. Back.” _

“I’m afraid I can’t do that. Even if they  _ would  _ take my case, I meant it. I won’t - Crowley!”

But the demon had already shoved open the driver’s door and leapt from the car. Stunned, Aziraphale struggled out of his seatbelt to follow.

“My dear, please - “

Crowley whirled on him. In the weak silver moonlight, he looked positively feral.

 “How could you be so incredibly  _ stupid _ ?” he shouted, ugly and awful and cracked down the middle, “Do you have  _ any  _ idea what you’ve done? You think you know what it’s like to be a demon? You think I was exaggerating that every  _ moment  _ is agony, that living in Her shadow isn’t the worst thing you could imagine? That you won’t spend every  _ single day  _ missing it with your whole being? It’s  _ Hell. _ What would you have done if the renouncement stuck, Aziraphale? Hell would’ve  _ chewed. You. Up.  _ You wouldn’t have lasted down there - “

“I already did, so let’s drop that argument here, shall we?” There was a bite to Aziraphale’s voice that had not existed before, a hardness like chips of Arctic ice. For a moment, he could almost believe there were two demons in Tadfield. 

_ This wasn’t how it was supposed to happen _ , Aziraphale couldn’t help but think, heavy with resignation. Millennia of stolen glances and whispered fingers against skin, of hidden feelings silently requited. It shouldn’t have gone like this. It should have been soft and slow and loving, firelight in the grate, wine-warm and blissful. 

Instead, they were in a screaming match on a dark Oxfordshire road, and it looked as if Aziraphale was about to lose Crowley entirely.

He took a deep breath and tried once more. “Crowley. What is this really about?”

The demon did not look at him. Arms folded, head tilted sharply down at the asphalt, he grit his teeth around the answer. 

“I always wanted to go back,” he mumbled. “Not to Heaven, but to...do you know, how much I hated Lucifer? After? He was the reason - I mean, I questioned, I revolted, but for the longest time I thought, if he hadn’t - he  _ led  _ us down, and maybe if he hadn’t I could still feel Her. It’s like someone took a punchhole and cut out your heart, only it’s a little too jagged for anything to fit it, and you never stop wanting it back. You find blaming someone else is easier. It’s natural, hating the one who took everything from you…”

He sucked in a breath, and Aziraphale realized, horrified, that he was crying.

“It’s gonna happen. Always does. And I don’t want to be around to see it.”

“Oh, my dear,” Aziraphale whispered. Took a hesitant step towards him, like he was trying not to startle a wild animal, “I could never hate you.”

Crowley shook his head. “You don’t know that. It’s not a hypothetical. It  _ happens. _ I made you Fall, how could you not?”

“I know  _ you.  _ I know you’re not like them, Crowley. You’re nothing at all like Satan, or Beelzebub, or - ”

“Because I had you!” Crowley screamed suddenly. Never before had he seen the demon like this, red-faced and cheeks wet with desperate tears, “You were the only thing keeping me from jumping into a font of holy water for six  _ thousand years!  _ I can’t - I can’t be that for you. I won’t be a comfort. I’ll only remind you of what you lost by choosing me, and one day you’ll hate me for it, and then where will I be? I can’t lose you like that, Aziraphale. I won’t. Better discorporate me now and deliver me to Hell than resign me to a fate worse than death.”

The last sentence was nothing more than a whimper as the demon sagged against the hood of the Bentley.

“I can’t do it,” he choked, “Please. For my sake. Return to your Side, and let me die with an ounce of dignity.”

Aziraphale rounded the Bentley and placed a hand next to Crowley’s, balled in fists next to his thighs. Not touching; not enough to spook him. But close enough that he could almost sense the blood pounding like a storm in spidery blue veins. 

“Oh, Crowley,” he murmured, praying to whoever was listening that he get this right,  “I think I see the problem.”

“Just let it go, angel.”

“No, not yet. I’ve been simply awful to you. I want to apologise. And then after that, if you still want me to leave, then I will. I’ll contact Metatron. I’ll take back the Renouncement, and you’ll never have to see me again. Agreed?”

The demon sat silent. The weight of another six millenia without the other weighed heavy in the air. Then he nodded, quick and somber. 

“Right. Call me a selfish, oblivious old fool, but I hadn’t ever thought how my allegiance to Heaven would affect you. Only just now I realized...since the dawn of time, I chose Heaven over you, again and again, even when they were perfectly rotten to me. And you stuck by me each time. I can’t imagine the hurt I put you through. It must have seemed as though I cared for our friendship very little.

“You see, my dear, I was terrified. I knew my Side would never approve of my consorting with a demon, and I - I feared they would destroy you for it. It never occurred that they’d destroy  _ me,  _ but,” he chuckled wetly, “I’ve been a fool about many other things. And then in Hell, when - when they wanted me to Fall,  _ desperate  _ for me to make a renouncement, and I wouldn’t, wouldn’t break, wouldn’t give in, they - they threatened to hurt you, take you away again, and I couldn’t - “

“Aziraphale,” Crowley interrupted, pleading, “You don’t have to explain. It’s not your fault, really - “

Aziraphale shook his head desperately. “It  _ is  _ my fault! I’ve let you believe for so long that I didn’t love you enough to Fall for you. You think I said it lightly. That I didn’t know what I was getting myself into. I knew the consequences, and none of them could compare to a life spent without you. I meant every word.”

And then he drew a breath, tremulous and brave, and recited the words seared into his heart. 

“ _ I, Aziraphale, _ ” he started; swallowed, voice husked with pain, and pushed on, “ _ Principality, Guardian of Eden, Angel of the Eastern Gate - _ “

Crowley jerked away from him once more, stunned. He could tell without question that this was Aziraphale’s Renouncement. “Don’t,” he whimpered, “God, please don’t.”

It went ignored. “ -  _ do so renounce the Light and Kingdom of God - _ “         

“ _ Aziraphale. _ ”

“  _ \- under the terms that I have Loved another more than Her, against Her Divine Will, and so rescind my allegiance to Heaven. _ ” He looked up, eyes clear and bright, smiling a sad, achingly soft thing, “I  _ chose  _ you, and I meant every word. I pledged myself to you, to our side. Yes, it was forced, but the prospect of living without you was...unbearable. More than Falling, more than the idea of staying in Hell, more than losing a connection to the Almighty. Please believe me when I say I  _ meant  _ it, my dear, not solely on pain of discorporation and death. I Fell knowing that you would be there to catch me. 

I know I haven’t been very deserving of such a thing - in fact, if you indeed wanted never to see me again after this whole debacle, I’d understand. I swore I would not argue. But you must know that I chose you willingly. I could never,  _ ever  _ hate you, my love. I choose  _ you _ , Crowley, and if you’ll have me, not that I expect anything from you, of course, I -  _ oof!” _

The words were cut off as the wind was knocked out of his chest, for suddenly they were sprawled out on the cold, wet grass, Crowley having launched himself at Aziraphale’s middle. 

_ “You idiot _ ,” Crowley hissed against his neck, heatless, “Of course I - Aziraphale,  _ Go-Someone,  _ you, you - ngk - “

Aziraphale’s hands came up around him, belated from surprise. Snowmelt soaked up into his cardigan; he couldn’t give less of a damn.

 “Shh, I’m sorry. Was that too much?”

“Too much?” Crowley laughed in incredulity, “ _ Too much?  _ Six thousand  _ bloody  _ years, I - no, no it wasn’t. I - “ he choked, fumbling off into a mess of syllables. Distantly, Crowley realized he was crying; words came too fast through hitched breathing, the world blurred together in ocean salt tears.

Hands were in his hair, stroking his back, strong arms curled tight around his shaking frame. “It’s alright, dearest, I have you.”

“Say it again,” he begged, “ _ Please,  _ I need to hear - say it again, please.”

Lips pressed into his hair, reverent. Aziraphale’s arms tightened around him. “I love you. I love you. I  _ love  _ you.” It was all he had to offer.

“Y-you don’t know how long I’ve waited for that.”

Aziraphale sighed, a touch mournful. “Far too long, I’m afraid.”

“S’okay.” Crowley buried his face inexorably closer into his shoulder.  “I would have waited - forever, I could’ve waited another six thousand years and it wouldn’t have mattered.”

Aziraphale pulled back enough to look at him. One hand slid up from his back to push his glasses up into his hair, stroking a thumb across the wetness under Crowley’s eye. The demon shifted, watching him take in what was a frankly horrid appearance. Eyes swollen, cheeks blotchy and red and wet with various human functions, hair ruffled beyond all repair.

“You’re tired,” Aziraphale murmured, and all of a sudden Crowley realized how very true that was. He  _ ached _ , right down to his bones. “Shall we move somewhere more comfortable?”

Crowley couldn’t stop his cheeks from heating. “Oi, buy a guy dinner first.”

That earned him a chuckle, deep and throaty, and the vibrations made him shiver. He may have been exhausted, but he had enough energy to snap his fingers and find themselves back in the Bentley’s warmth. 

Except that Aziraphale was in the driver’s seat. And they were holding hands.

“There’s an inn a kilometer or so back,” Aziraphale said, buckling up as though nothing were out of the ordinary, “We can stop there for the night, and then head home in the morning. Yes?”

Crowley’s brain was busy short circuiting over the thumb stroking the back of his palm. Never mind the fact that Aziraphale had somehow overridden his miracle and was now settling his free hand on the Bentley’s steering wheel.

“Uh - you know how to drive, angel?”

Aziraphale raised a pointed brow. “Do you?”

“Ouch.” He notably did not disagree.

The Bentley jolted on its own, Chopin’s  _ Somebody to Love _ once more wafting soft in the darkness. Crowley slumped against the seat, boneless, occasionally wiping the back of his hand across his cheeks. They were both messy, teary-eyed wrecks; the road ahead was long and dark, and seemed to hold many a serious discussion, not to mention the vague threat of their respective former bosses. 

But it was one they would walk together.

 At the very least, the air felt lighter between them than it had in a long, long time. Fingers twined, palm to palm and bloodwarm, Aziraphale was struck with the sudden notion that they would be, ineffably, okay.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You guys have NO IDEA how long I've been sitting on that last scene and I'm SO GLAD IT'S FINALLY OUT THERE! If you have a moment after reading, I would very much like to hear what you thought :)  
> I've put a rough estimate of how many more chapters there are, but that's subject to change depending how the writing goes. I just started university classes again, and since I'm in STEM that means significantly less time to write, but I wanted to at least hit this turning point in the story before things get nuts  
> Many many thanks to Della for betaing this chapter, without whom it would have been a complete mess!


	13. do not crumble, love is breathing still

 

Crowley was dreaming. 

He had to be. Otherwise, how else had he come to be standing at the front desk of a charming little inn in Oxfordshire, awaiting the keys to a room to share with Aziraphale, while Aziraphale’s arm looped firm around his waist?

It was, literally, something out of his wildest fantasies. Demonic fantasies weren’t supposed to include bed and breakfasts with crackling fires and charming little woodcuttings scattered about the main room, but he’d never been a very good demon.

As for Aziraphale…

Crowley watched him natter cheerfully on with the innkeeper without so much as a hair out of place, while the demon lingered a shaky, off-kilter wreck by his side. A minor miracle kept people from asking questions, but Aziraphale didn’t seem to need one. He stood a glowing presence, warm and soft and loveable. Every inch of him was his angel to the core. 

Without the fuzzy, muted-grey aura that had replaced the bright angelic shine, one could almost believe he’d never Fallen at all.

Crowley pressed closer to his side. His stomach fluttered as Aziraphale’s arm tightened around him, reassuring. Crowley hadn’t let go of him for more than a few seconds since flinging himself at Aziraphale’s chest, and that had only been when he’d let go of his hand to exit the Bentley. He’d even unthinkingly tried to climb out the driver’s side door before Aziraphale, amused, released his hand and reminded him of the passenger side exit.

The innkeeper handed them a pair of keys.

“Ah, thank you very much, madame.” Aziraphale smiled his most charming smile at her. The one that could have blinded the sun, that melted Crowley a little more each time he bore witness to it. It certainly melted the apprehension at sharing a room ( _ and a bed,  _ he thought, remembering the shock of hearing Aziraphale request a double.  _ A double _ ).

Dazed, wondering vaguely if he’d managed a concussion from the scuffle with Xaphan, Crowley let himself be led up a creaky flight of stairs and through a heavy oak door.

Their room was cozy in a classic cottage sort of way. Its mansard roof sloped down either side of the sturdy wooden bedframe, comfortable-looking mattress tucked neatly with white sheets and a colorful quilt. Faded ivy-patterned wallpaper peeled in places, lit by two incandescent lamps with tacky lampshades (fringe?  _ really _ ?). The low window was shuttered, door shut tight behind them, and Crowley could almost believe that this place would shelter them from all harm.

In any case, it was about to do them a load of good. Starting with the shower.

“How long was I out, by the way?” he asked, crinkling his nose in disgust at the sleep-sour taste in his mouth. A discrete sniff to his shirt was no better.

Aziraphale, gauging his approval with the bed, paused bouncing on it. “Oh, several days. I thought you’d sleep for a week at least, you looked so tired.”

“Mm. Think I still could,” Crowley said around a stifled yawn, “Mind if I wash up?”

“By all means. I’ll be here.” Aziraphale smiled at him again, and Crowley felt an odd, hollow pang at the prospect of being separated. As if losing sight of him would shatter the illusion of this dream come to life; as if putting up a physical barrier would cause him to wake up in a cold, empty bed, once more trapped in a world of mere  _ fraternization.  _

“Right. Be right back.”

Crowley hesitated before locking the bathroom door behind him. Taking a deep, quivering breath, he turned to the vanity mirror and winced. The demon that greeted him was  _ not  _ anything like himself. At the very least, nothing like the version of himself he’d imagined the night he finally,  _ finally _ admitted his true feelings to Aziraphale.

His face was red from exertion and the cold, flushed bright under its usual grey pallor. Tears and snot ( _ disgusting)  _ had crusted over his cheeks, under puffy eyes that had only just returned to having whites instead of pure yellow. The water from the tap felt deliciously lukewarm and cleansing against the splotchy, swollen skin, and he relished scrubbing away the grit.

As many times as he had dreamt this night, never had Crowley thought it might be like  _ this.  _ In more ways than his appearance, mind. Crowley’s chest twinged remembering the emotional whiplash of the past hour or two. 

The entire car ride to Tadfield had been spent steeling his heart against the conversation to come, building up iron walls, locking confessions behind lips and teeth. Always self-sacrificing, always putting Aziraphale’s needs before his desires no matter the pain it caused them both, no matter how hard the stubborn idiot fought.

Except -

Except the stubborn idiot  _ had  _ fought, and fought well. Tore down the walls brick by brick, hammered at the foundations. Like a siren, promising the thing Crowley wanted more than anything in the universe, and he’d been too weak to deny himself any longer.

And now that it had all come to fruition - where did he stand?

_ You will not be enough,  _ the Voice, the horrible, sneering thing in the back of his mind whispered, oh-so terribly familiar,  _ How long before it all falls to ruin at your fingertips? How long before you lose him again? You think you can make him happy, serpent? A demon knows nothing of the love an angel once had.  _

“Shut up, Mother,” Crowley hissed. For the Voice was, as always, the best approximation to an Answer he’d ever been able to conjure. 

Satisfied in the reduced puffiness around his eyes, and fighting back another cresting wave of anxiety, Crowley steeled his resolve. The knot of anxiety throbbed as he palmed the doorknob. 

When he returned to the bedroom, Aziraphale was fiddling with the rather disappointing shelf of books near the window. His nose was wrinkled in mild distaste, same as when a customer asked to actually purchase something, or a promising new restaurant turned out to be anything but. Nothing in the known universe was more adorable; the anxiety receded a smidge.

Aziraphale turned at the sound of the bathroom door opening; the look of vague annoyance melted right off. 

“Hello there.”

“Hey.” Crowley shoved his hands in sweatpants pockets and swaggered over. “Anything good?”

Aziraphale tugged a copy of  _ The Downing Street Years  _ from the shelf and pulled the Face, causing Crowley to chuckle. It was a bit too weak, too short to be entirely meaningful.

The literary terror was placed dutifully back on the shelf. “Nothing worth my attention.”

“Good. Well, not good but - you know. Er. So. Long day. You, uh. Coming to bed?” Crowley fairly  _ felt  _ the record scratch in his brain as he stuttered, “I mean, not to - you know, just sleeping. I mean, unless you want to? That’s a whole conversation though, I didn’t - er. I’m mucking this up, aren’t I?”

“Not at all.” There was that smile again, the one that threatened the love quashed deep in his being to swell up and explode in his chest. Crowley swallowed as Aziraphale reached out to cup his cheek. “I don’t believe you could muck it up if you tried.”

_ How is he so bloody calm about this?  _ This confident, suave being of open affection barely resembled the nervous wraith that had haunted his flat for months.

“Ngh,” said Crowley.

A thumb stroked his cheekbone with more tender care than a demon should ever know. He felt the gentle scrape of it against the rough plaster. Aziraphale’s eyes, hazel now in the buttered light of tacky lamps, flicked quickly down to his lips. It was all the warning he had before Aziraphale leaned in, eyes closed.

Crowley jerked away.

“Are you sure?” he blurted. His voice was high-pitched with panic, and Aziraphale drew back in concern, “I know you said - but I dunno if you understand what this means. I mean. I need you to  _ get it _ . Okay? I spent ages -  _ literal millenia -  _ holding back. Going slow. Trying to be whatever you needed. And that’s fine, I’m fine with that, I just can’t - I can’t - if this goes wrong I can’t go  _ back  _ \- “

“Oh, dear, shh. Come here.” 

Aziraphale guided him to the bed with a gentle hand on his wrist and sat him down. Their thighs pressed warm together; Crowley grit his teeth. Everything was too loud, too fast, too bright. The millennia-old instinct to shoved Aziraphale away ( _ to protect him, always to protect him, no one can know, certainly not Aziraphale)  _ screamed at him, threatening to crack his ribs and ruin everything. He sucked in a breath and tried to start again.

 “I just...Aziraphale, if we do this, I’m never going to want to stop. Not ever. And you need to understand what that means. I know I go too fast. I know I’m -  _ a lot _ . If that’s not something you want to get involved with, then let’s just leave it here. Go back to how things used to be.”

Aziraphale blinked in surprise. The hand encircling his wrist moved to cup his chin. A strangled whimper escaped Crowley’s throat as hazel eyes searched his face.

“Could you do that?” 

Crowley swallowed hard. “I dunno,” he said, raw in its honesty.

“Well, I for one know that I cannot.” Aziraphale leaned forward once more, hesitating enough to let Crowley escape if need be. “And I should very much like to kiss you, now. If you’re amenable.”

_ Dear Go - Sat - Someone, he’s going to discorporate me. _

“Mmhm,” Crowley agreed, not trusting himself to expound further.

The kiss was a simple, chaste thing; barely more than a brush of lips. But it sent sparks zinging down every nerve in his corporation. Aziraphale tasted of apples and a little like the mulled wine they’d shared in the 2nd century. Though he wasn’t much one for edible pleasures, Crowley privately thought nothing had ever tasted better. 

Aziraphale pulled back with a breathy little smile.

“Well,” he sighed, “That was - “

He didn’t finish, for Crowley had once again pressed forward, desperate for more. Arms wrapped around Aziraphale like the snake he was, hands fisted in his shirt. Any inch of space between them felt like a gaping raving.

They tumbled onto the bed, wrapped up in each other. Someone’s fingers snapped and set their shoes by the door. Crowley didn’t know whose miracle it was, didn’t  _ care  _ how utterly, ridiculously wasteful it was, because he was kissing Aziraphale, and Aziraphale was kissing back, and for the time being everything else in the universe ground to a perfect halt.

After a minute, Crowley pulled away, shivering with the delight of it all. “You don’t want to - ?“

 He looked pointedly down the length of them.

“Ah.” Aziraphale looked embarrassed. His hair was tousled beyond all repair. “Not particularly. That has never been an aspect of mortal life I wanted to partake in. Unless you - “

“Nope, no, all good here, thanks. Same page and all that.” Crowley kissed him again in the breaking tide of relief. Sharing a bed was one thing. Anything more, and he might’ve ended up a puddle of demonic goo on the floor. 

There was a hand in his hair doing  _ wonderful  _ things to his scalp, and another rubbing circles on the knob of his spine. Crowley melted into the touch. Heaven was certainly not a white expanse of shimmering office space and bespoke-suited assholes. Heaven was a creaking, ancient-quilted bed that listed a little to one side, in a room that contained a few terrible books, an ugly lamp, and the most wonderful creation She had ever designed.

“Mm, wait,” Aziraphale murmured, “Hold - hold on, let me just…”

He tipped his head back to look up at Crowley, tender-eyed. The hand in his hair skimmed down his cheek to graze a thumb across pinkened lips. Crowley couldn’t help but kiss the finger.

“Hi again,” said Crowley.

Aziraphale smiled. “Hello, love.”

The back of Crowley’s neck flushed hotly. “That a thing now?”

“If you’d like.”

“Whatever happened to ‘I go too fast for you’?”

Aziraphale gave a one-shouldered shrug. “Well, with everything that’s happened recently, I think...I think I’m tired of waiting. Of letting the fear of Heaven’s wrath control what I -  _ we _ \- do. It’s been - oh, ages now, since I realized I - well. I don’t want to wait a minute longer.”

Crowley’s hands clenched in the pillowcase. His heart fluttered against bruised ribs. “How long’s ages?”

“Since I realized?” Aziraphale’s expression turned thoughtful. “Eighty years or so. Nineteen forty-one, to be exact.”

“Nineteen forty - hold on, the church?”

“The very same. You saved the books. No one else would have known how upset I’d have been if they were destroyed. I was quite hysterical once I realized, if we’re being honest. But I think...” Aziraphale paused, laying his hand to curl between the spaces of Crowley’s fingers. The demon stopped breathing, “I think it’s been far longer. Hamlet, perhaps. Rome even. I’m not quite sure.”

“Quiet a long crush,” Crowley teased to cover the sheen coming over his eyes. The  _ last  _ thing he needed was another embarrassing human reaction. Aziraphale gave him a flat look; it was ruined somewhat by an affectionate squeeze of his hand.

“And you? How long have you known, my dear?”

_ Shit.  _ Crowley suddenly became very interested in the lampshade behind Aziraphale’s head. He coughed lightly. 

“Eden.”

“Pardon?”

“ _ Eden _ .” It was a bit stronger now, chin tilted up as if daring Aziraphale to laugh, “Since Eden. The, uh. The whole sword thing made an impression, I guess.”

“ _ Oh.”  _ Aziraphale blinked in surprise. “Oh, my dear. I wish I’d known. All this time - “

“Not like anything could’ve  _ happened _ ,” Crowley said emphatically, rolling his eyes to hide the hurt, “Powers that be breathing down our necks and all that.”

Aziraphale sighed, visibly upset at the revelation. It seemed the idea of how much time they’d spent hiding requited feelings was a mutually understood sore spot. 

He unclasped their hands to tug Crowley closer. “Come back here.”

Crowley did. He always did; wasn’t that the point of it? This earthly existence would be nothing but floating from temptation to meaningless temptation without Aziraphale there. Life was a bleak, empty stretch of eternity unless it held the promise of that glowing smile, the dimpled happiness, the put upon sigh of  _ “my dear”  _ that was invariably laced with affection. To think of how close he had come to never having any of this...Crowley shuddered. 

“I’m sorry for what I said,” the demon mumbled into the fabric of a cream cardigan. His eyes shut tight at the memory. “You’re not weak. You would’ve survived it all.”

The hand in his hair stilled for a moment. “Forgiven. You had a...few grains of truth in there. I’d be a wretched demon.”

“Even so. I was cruel about it. You didn’t - you’re the strongest being I’ve ever known, angel.” The words were whispered against the skin of Aziraphale’s neck, a revelation, benediction, and apology all rolled into one. 

“And you, my dear, are the most gorgeous, lovable demon I’ve ever had the pleasure to meet.” Crowley felt his face burn even as his chest swelled with affection. “It seems we both have much to apologize for.”

“Let’s just forget it and call it equal, then.”

Aziraphale huffed an agreement into his hair. He said nothing else, curling that much closer into Crowley, and the demon accepted it for what it was. 

They laid there the rest of the night, emotionally exhausted yet too physically keyed-up to sleep. Instead, they traded stories and secrets and soft, wonderous kisses, hands skimmed along the curve of biceps and up knobs of vertebrae, reveling in the wonder of being alive next to the other. The sun would rise, as it had a wont to do, casting a rose pink glow over the two of them, inseperable.

The dawn of a brand new day.

* * *

 

Far from a little inn in Oxfordshire, damp in the fresh dewy morning, an angel and a demon sat on a park bench in St. James. A bold duck honked nastily at them and promptly sank. 

“Izzz the angel no longer conzzzidered a problem?” the demon buzzed.

“Well in hand,” assured the angel, “He will be punished accordingly. And the demon?”

Beezlebub, Lord of the Flies and Prince of Hell, waved a noncommittal hand. “Taken care of. Azzz you know.”

The archangel Michael nodded primly. “Good. This cannot be allowed to continue, you understand.”

Beezlebub snorted. 

They made quite a pair, the two of them. Michael sat ramrod straight, hands folded in her lap, while the Prince of Hell slouched over more than their fair share of the bench in a way that was most unbecoming and definitely hellish. 

Not to mention rude.

“Then it’zzz zettled. When?”

“We’ll give it time,” Michael decided, “We still have a fair bit of paperwork to wrap up on our end. Once it goes through HR, I shall pay Aziraphale a visit.” 

She ignored the rolling of ice blue eyes at the mention of HR. Hell had a similar concept, except it was less filing job transfer paperwork and more waiting in a never ending line at the DMV while Christmas music played incessantly. 

The sun rose over the duck pond, a light mist forming over its surface in the chilly morning. 

It would certainly be a new day when all was said and done. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> WOW thank you all so much for the incredible response from last chapter! Sorry things have been too hectic to get through replies to your comments (since I feel the need to do All Comments At the Same Time). Forgive me for the twist on the ending as well ;)  
> Title from "Brighton Rock", a personal favorite.


	14. though their hearts so heavily weigh

Crowley scrubbed a hand through his damp hair, sighing in tangible relief as he stepped out of the shower. A fluffy black towel manifested from the ether to be slung low over his hips as his feet sunk into the plush bathmat. Hot water, he marvelled, on demand. It’d been centuries, yet he still wasn’t over it. Clever humans.

He dried off and got dressed the long way; the mortal way. Something about buttoning up the waistcoat and taking far too much time wrestling a good, careless-tustle look to his hair felt enormously satisfying. Like taking the power that’d been stolen from them back.

A good scrub had done him wonders after the week - nay, the months he’d been through. Crowley had spent close to an hour just soaking in the hot spray, letting the water pound into sore muscles, sluicing the fear and anger from his soul. 

The drive back from Oxford had been relatively quiet. They both had been hesitant to leave the cozy haven of the inn, and Aziraphale had insisted on a bit of a lie-in (not that Crowley had complained overmuch) before reluctantly letting his demon drive them back to London. Nothing out of the ordinary, save for the way their fingers tangled together the whole way home, occasionally to be lifted and a spontaneous kiss pressed to eon-rough knuckles. 

Aziraphale had also requested a stop at one of their more frequented bakeries, claiming that he was feeling fit enough to keep it down and was rather famished after all that melodrama, and did you want anything, my love? As if that hadn’t broken Crowley down into mere moonstruck atoms. 

They’d parted ways so Crowley could wash up while Aziraphale dug in to his long-awaited pastries. He’d brought a stack of books with him from Anathema’s. They’d talked it over in the car; how he felt Fallen, yet not Damned, how Adam thought he might be something different, something new. His eyes had lit up at the promise of an answer, and Crowley hadn’t the heart to argue that he should focus on recovery. If there was one thing Aziraphale couldn’t resist, it was a good puzzle. Even if that puzzle came with a million different PTSD-esque strings attached to it.

That was how Crowley found him: in the kitchen, idly toying with the unbound strings on a pink bakery box with one hand while the other carefully skimmed an ancient tome from Jasmine Cottage. Golden afternoon sunlight caught his curls in just the right way; a few errant croissant crumbs graced the corner of his mouth.

Fuck, he was gorgeous. 

Aziraphale looked up as Crowley pulled the chair opposite him away from the breakfast bar. He smiled and pushed a fresh cup of coffee towards him. Hot and milky, with far too much sugar and a dash of cinnamon to the grounds. Just how he liked it. Crowley lifted the mug in a mock salute. 

“Find anything interesting?” 

There was one last pain au chocolat left in the box. Crowley pushed it surreptitiously towards Aziraphale, who noticed, of course, and smiled brighter. 

“Not quite.” Aziraphale took a few careful, well-savored bites of pastry. A crease formed between his brows, the one that meant he was being all clever. Crowley loved that crease. Crowley loved all of him. 

A manicured hand spread over the leatherbound notebook next to what looked like a copy of  _ Malleus Maleficarum _ , a fountain pen hovering over the lines. Crowley would recognize Aziraphale’s neat copperplate script anywhere. The notes went down in bulleted lines, and, when Crowley craned his neck, read:

- _Heaven’s revenge_

_-_ _Metatron involved – how?_

_-_ _Grey wings, no aura; no infernal signs otherwise_

_-_ _Gabriel still a threat? Other archangels?_

_-_ _Neither demon nor angel – other mythical creature?_

_-_ _Limited connection to Her_

“Mythical creatures, huh?” Crowley teased, steering clear of the last bullet point. The words made the coffee in his stomach sit like cold sludge. He filed the idea carefully away for reexamination later. “Not feeling particularly naga-ish this morning, are we? Anything vaguely leprechaun-adjacent going on?” 

_ “Crowley.” _

“I’m serious! Nasty buggers, leprechauns. Can’t trust the Fae, you know that.”

Aziraphale rolled his eyes. “I meant nothing of the sort. Simply that there may be something useful in records of human mythologies. They’re very clever, you know.”

“Yeah, yeah, ‘ve noticed.” He flipped the book towards him and frowned. “Hm. Gabriel. Gotta admit, I hadn’t thought about him since…”

Crowley let the sentence hang in the air with a little lift of his eyebrows. Glasses-free, Aziraphale could read his every microexpression, but it didn’t hurt to drive the point home.

“That dreadful business with Xaphan?” Aziraphale’s expression darkened. “No, I should hope not. I’ve been under the assumption we’re, er, in the clear, as they say. Gabriel tends to favor a direct action approach rather than waiting, so when we hadn’t seen any retribution after that…still. We should be careful. Can’t hurt to keep him in mind. Or any of the lot. I doubt Michael or Uriel haven’t caught wind of our exploits, even if…um. Dear, are you alright?”

Admittedly, Crowley had stopped listening after  _ no _ . An odd look crossed his face; a little upset, but mostly thoughtful, if anything. Eyes somewhere else, far away. He tapped the word Gabriel unconsciously. 

“He knew my name,” the demon admitted quietly, “My true name, the one She revoked. Gabriel. When I – when I summoned him, he called me – only I didn’t think anyone even remembered.  _ I  _ barely remembered.”

Given the whirlwind of events that had passed since summoning the archangel, Crowley hadn’t had time to process their interaction beyond business. Did all angels remember the Fallen, he wondered? Or had Gabriel been alone in recalling the way a young Raphael had argued with him over the Garden’s design, had complained about Michael nitpicking his work with the stars, had listened quietly as Lucifer rallied the rebelling angels to his cause? Had refused to fight as Camael tossed them down, one by one, with broken wings and shattered hearts?

The idea that some version of  _ Raphael  _ still lingered in Heaven made him nauseous. 

A hand covered the one still tapping idly on the notebook in forced calm, stilling it. Crowley looked up. Aziraphale’s lips were pursed in consternation, waiting for him to continue. He shook his head.

“Dunno why it’s important. It just felt…odd. Well, it hurt, saying a Name like that’ll do the trick but like. Emotionally. Dunno. Stupid, really.”

Aziraphale’s thumb started running over the back of his palm. “It seems to be something that matters to you,” he said, choosing his words with great care.

“Not really.” Crowely shrugged, aiming for something like nonchalance. “I’d tell you, if you like. Well, I can’t actually say it, but I could write it down or something – “

The hand moved suddenly to his cheek, cutting him off. Bright blue eyes smoldering with righteous anger on his behalf. “Wouldn’t it hurt you? If I said your name?”

“Probably,” he admitted. Leaned into the touch, savoring the warmth of Aziraphale’s palm. Then added, husky and reverent, “I’d let you.”

Aziraphale stroked his cheekbone once before retracting his hand with a  _ tch _ . “There is absolutely no need for that, my dear. Anthony J. Crowley is the name you chose, and it is the only name I will ever need from you.”

Crowley swallowed. It shouldn’t be allowed, saying things that made him feel like that. “Even if the J’s just a J?”

“ _ Especially _ if the J’s just a J, you ridiculous thing.”

The words hung between them, sweet and solid and all-encompassing. Someone help him, but if the plants ever heard anything along those lines, all their training would have been for naught. Crowley ducked his head, fighting to keep the blush off his pale cheeks and the smile off his face. He failed miserably.

“So!” As a distraction to the horrible joy suffusing his very being, Crowley snagged a book from the pile and flipped it open. “Mgh. Leprechauns, right? Shouldn’t be too challenging.”

He took another sip of coffee. Glancing over the rim of his mug revealed a very smug, soft eyed, almost-angel returning to his notes. The little half smile he wore - the one that appeared with de-staining coats and un-sinking ducks - could have powered the fucking sun.

* * *

In the dim light of midnight London, Aziraphale lay awake, thinking. 

Next to him (or, rather, halfway sprawled atop him), Crowley slept like a log. A loudly snoring log that wrapped its lanky limbs around him like liana, to be exact. Not that he minded much.

Aziraphale had spent a long, fruitless day following a dead-end trail in one of Anathema’s books, and had invited the demon up to bed for a cuddle ( _ don’t call it that,  _ Crowley whined, though he followed anyway). Since the night in Oxford together, it was rare for either of them to sleep alone. It was a phenomenon where, now that they’d experienced the sweet comfort of dozing next to each other, nothing less would suffice. Especially for Crowley, who was prone to bouts of anxiety mid-sleep after having woken, disoriented, to find Aziraphale gone after the smiting.

It was one of the many lovely little things about their new normal. Aziraphale read his looming stack of books, a tableau that now included Crowley lounging along on the couch with him, feet tucked comfortably under Aziraphale’s thighs. Crowley yelled at his plants and caused a ruckus on Twitter, only occasionally to be interrupted by Aziraphale asking his opinion on a certain biblical passage or mythical mistranslation.

Routine was good for them both. Despite the leagues of headway made regarding Aziraphale’s health, recovery was still recovery, and it was a slow one at that. One could not heal from such an ordeal from a few month’s rest and a declaration of love. He still slept more than was usual, though Crowley’s solid weight next to him kept the nightmares at bay for now. Even his appetite had started trending in the right direction, though he took care not to overdo it.

Still. There was something that bothered him in the quiet hours, the liminal spaces where they were again two beings instead of one. A crinkle appeared in Aziraphale’s brow as he considered his next steps.

Nestled on his shoulder, face tucked into his neck, Crowley snuffled in his sleep. Aziraphale pressed an absent-minded kiss to his hair, thumb running light circles over a bare shoulder. They were both held together with toothpicks and glue, fragile in the aftermath of several months’ disasters. Aziraphale wouldn’t give up their newfound intimacy for the universe. 

And yet, that bothersome  _ something  _ niggled in the back of his mind, chipping away at the hard-won peace they’d stolen for themselves.

He made up his mind. Carefully, so as not to disturb the slumbering serpent who had rolled adorably onto his belly, Aziraphale untangled himself from the fiendish twist of limbs trapping him in the bed. Crowley made a discontented sound and curled into the warm space he left behind with a frown. The sight set his heart aflutter.

Aziraphale bent down to run a hand through his demon’s mussed hair. “Sleep, dearest. Dream of whatever you like best.” He sealed the blessing with a kiss to Crowley’s forehead. Crowley exhaled slowly, frown loosening until his face smoothed out in sleep. 

The world was dark when Aziraphale slipped out of the flat. Mayfair was...well, not silent, but as quiet as Mayfair ever got as the early morning neared its fourth hour. Early March nipped at his nose, grey slush from a half-hearted sleet storm soaking into his carpet slippers. Aziraphale was too anxious to really notice as he stopped in front of his intended location.

The church was an ancient thing, all gothic stonework and jeweled glass windows reflecting the soft orange light from the street. It was by no means the largest church around, but as Aziraphale tilted his head back, it seems to stretch for miles, looming its judgement far above him. Its heavy wooden door was, miraculously, unlocked. 

Aziraphale placed his hand on the doorknob.

He waited for the pain - for the dance of hot coals under his feet, the sting of Holiness to a being of infernal make. The brass handle tingled under his palm, like the static over an old television set, but no worse. Aziraphale loosed a breath he hadn’t realized he’d been holding. 

Inside, the light scent of incense floated from the cooled thurible. Frankincense,copal, and myrrh. White candles lit themselves as he strolled slowly down the aisle, hands brushing the edge of pews. Here he could sense the depth of emotion that poured into the years like resin in the ancient wood floor; the joy of a married couple’s first embrace, the loving press of grieved hands on a coffin lid, the soft pride and wonder in running a child’s head in their baptismal bath. Decades of humanity’s highest and lowest moments welled to the surface. It left him shivering with the electric crackle under his feet, stronger now as he approached the altar.

Aziraphale swallowed. He knelt. 

To contact the Almighty with the chalk sigil was almost the same as ringing up a CEO’s private telephone line. Aziraphale hadn’t expected yet another secretary to answer the call, but as no one save the Metatron had had direct contact with Her in millenia, it hadn’t been a great surprise. Now, though, he’d have to get a bit creative.

Though he ought to have felt terrified, a strange calm settled over him. Aziraphale clasped his hands together in prayer. He thought very, very hard about the connection of the phone line, determined not to mix up the switchboard again. The firm belief that the Metatron had no business in this conversation would have to be enough to redirect the call around them.

Confident that no other angel was listening, Aziraphale cleared his throat.

“Hello,” he said, voice wobbling, “It’s me - well, I suppose you’d know that already. Um. Been quite a while, hasn’t it?”

No response. He waited for the white glow of divinity, or perhaps for his corporeal form to start smoking in blasphemy. Nothing happened other than a faint buzzing starting in the back of his skull that he hoped was not a bad omen.

 Aziraphale didn’t know if his call was being listened to, yet he soldiered on. 

Once more, he cleared his throat, tight with everything unsaid. “I know I haven’t the right to be here,” he hedged, “And I know you must be very cross with me. After the Apocalypse, and the...the whole renouncement business. Ahem. Well. I wanted to say I’m sorry.”

Here, his voice cracked wide open, horrible and ugly and right down the middle. Tears stood in the corner of closed eyes; palms pressed tighter together to keep from trembling.

“I didn’t want to Fall. I never wanted to lose You. I...I still believe in You, even if I don’t align myself with the rest of the angels. But I don’t regret it. I know I Loved him more in that moment, and that is fair grounds for...hn.” Aziraphale choked, unable to voice the words. Again, he pressed on.

 “I would do it again, though. Again and again, if it meant keeping him safe. I know it’s not right, my carrying on with a demon. But he’s not really a demon, is he? Not a  _ proper _ one. He’s wonderful, and kind, and he didn’t deserve what he got. I did. And I am truly, deeply sorry for Falling, but I will always love him. Frankly, I don’t see why there has to be a choice. I will still love You, even if I’m not...if that’s...frowned upon.”

Aziraphale took a shuddering breath. His teeth clenched to keep the sobs at bay. This was his mess; he would not beg for pity. “I am not asking forgiveness. I simply wanted to let you know - well. You already know, hm? Omnipotence and everything. Right. Thank you for, er, listening. And the sincere lack of smiting.”

Silence dominated the church. Aziraphale opened his eyes, expecting perhaps the glaring visage of the Metatron come to scold him. Or, worse yet, the point of Uriel’s sword before they dragged him Up. 

Candles flickered. Dust motes floated serenely around the lectern. The world had not ended.

Satisfied, he got up and left.

Weak rosy light had begun to spill over the rousing London streets as Aziraphale walked slowly, silently back to the flat. The buzzing in his head had lessened a touch, though he still felt troubled.

Crowley had shifted into a completely different position – head tilted at a ghastly angle, limbs akimbo, taking up entirely too much room and looking far too adorable with it. Aziraphale sat on the edge of the bed, careful not to wake him. It was for naught as Crowley’s eyes slitted open.

“Hey,” he croaked, “Y’okay?”

Aziraphale softened. Trust Crowley to put his needs first. He bent forward to kiss the demon’s forehead. “Everything is fine, my love. Go back to sleep.”

“Mm. C’mere.”

Aziraphale toed off his shoes and clambered back under the covers. Crowley rolled over to spoon up behind him, chin hooked over his shoulder with a soft sigh. It helped him, Aziraphale knew, to be able to feel that he was there. Whole and safe in their bed.

“You worried me,” Crowley’s sleep-rough voice admitted in his ear, “Woke up and you weren’t there. 

Aziraphale closed his eyes.  _ Of course he was.  _ “I’m sorry.”

There was so much more wrapped up in his apology.  _ I’m sorry,  _ but also  _ thank you. For looking out for me. For being vulnerable with me. I know it doesn’t come easy to you. _

Crowley buried his nose into Aziraphale’s neck with a nervous little sigh. “S’alright. I figured out you were okay pretty quick. Just...remember to be careful, yeah?”

_ Sweet serpent.  _ “I will,” Aziraphale assured. He squeezed the hands wrapped tight around his middle. He determinedly did not think about the church. “I promise.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi university definitely hit me like a truck lmao but I caught a break! Thank you for being patient with this chapter. Also, the author was raised catholic (and is a bad catholic at that) so that probably showed in the church scene huh?  
> As always, many thanks to my wonderful beta [Aziraiphale](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Aziraiphale/pseuds/Aziraiphale) who really is too good to me and drew an amazing fanart of my fic ['heat death of the universe'](https://archiveofourown.org/works/20841497). Please drop a comment of your thoughts on this chapter below for a nice pre-finals boost :) Thank you!


	15. they won't come knocking at all (maybe)

There was a man in the bookshop.

This should be expected, given that Aziraphale had decided to reopen the shop proper a few hours each day in an effort to return to ‘normalcy’. Crowley had wholeheartedly, yet with some lingering hesitation, supported the idea. Aziraphale understood his concern. His demon had been clearly worried at the prospect of leaving him alone, vulnerable to sudden attack and left at the mercy of whatever memories the shop held.  

Even so, Aziraphale insisted. To avoid uncomfortable situations because he might not like the result was a step back in his point of view. The bookshop was an essential part of his being, and sooner or later, Aziraphale would have to stop leaning on Crowley for everything. Even if he was certainly more prone to nervous fits while without the calming presence of his partner. 

However.

Aziraphale glanced out of the corner of his eye. The man in question was stout and balding. He wore a beige coat over a cream suit, a pale blue tie patterned with clouds knotted around his neck. Eyes that Aziraphale could only describe as beady flicked over the spines of his beloved Maya Angelou collection.

He looked like Sandalphon.

On some level, Aziraphale knew that this man was certainly  _ not _ Sandalphon. The idea of such was  _ quite _ ridiculous. His hair was too thin, stature too tall, composure too  _ at ease  _ in a supposedly human setting to be the archangel. Fingers traced along book spines, which normally would have put Aziraphale on edge (if he wasn’t already), but only served relief as proof that the man was, undoubtedly, human. Sandalphon would never debase himself by putting his grubby corporation’s hands on something so mundane as a book _.  _

Still. Aziraphale’s stomach tightened, a sense-memory of a punch to the gut. His heart raced as he thought he caught the scent of sulfur in the air, adrenaline flooding his veins at the memory of a portal to Hell cracking open the floorboards. The seconds ticked by; nothing happened. 

Aziraphale relaxed a fraction of a fraction. 

When the man finally ( _ finally!)  _ left without purchasing anything, he was quick to flip the shop’s sign to CLOSED without second thought.

He briefly considered waking Crowley, who was having a very deserved nap back at the flat, but dismissed the thought immediately. Why interrupt the demon’s well-needed rest with something as trivial as a - as a -  _ bad feeling?  _ He was the bloody Angel of the Eastern Gate, for Someone’s sake. He’d fought in wars. He was influential in stopping Armageddon itself. He could handle a little nervous tick now and again. 

Rearranging the scattered papers in his backroom hadn’t helped, so he puttered off to the kitchen to put the kettle on. Fingers twisted the buttons of his waistcoat as he waited for it to boil,  before impatiently sending the water to a screeching bubble with a  _ snap.  _ The tea should have scalded the roof of his mouth with how fast he downed the first cup, except that Aziraphale was distracted, and did not think about how such a thing might occur. 

It was fine, he reasoned. Everything was fine, and he was getting  _ better _ . Had been for a month. More than. Since Hell - since  _ Tadfield  _ \- he’d been on the up and up again. Nothing to be worried about but a little hiccup. A bad memory. 

He was  _ fine.  _

Only the crawling, juddering sensation kept zinging through his bloodstream, clumping up in his throat. His fingers itched to call Crowley, but -  _ no _ . This was healing; this was a step forward. Aziraphale couldn’t keep falling back on his partner when the slightest bad feeling set him off again. Two steps forward and all that business.

It was decided then. Aziraphale would soldier resolutely on for the rest of the work shift, a testament to his progress. He nodded to himself, set the kettle for another pot of tea, and resolutely did  _ not  _ reach for the telephone. 

He caved halfway through the second cup. Crowley answered on the first ring.

“ _ Hullo _ ?” he said, sounding less like someone woken from a relaxing snooze and more like he’d been waiting breathlessly by the phone all day. Aziraphale slumped against a bookshelf.

“Hello, you,” he said weakly, “How was your nap?”

 “ _ Oh, you know. Restful. _ ” He wasted no time with pleasant formalities.  “ _ What’s wrong _ ?”

Aziraphale’s shoulders sagged. “Is it that obvious?” he asked, bitter disappointment seeping into his tone. 

“ _Nah. Better’n last time._ _Lasted a whole shift today, you’re making progress. What happened?”_

“Just a…” Aziraphale swallowed around the tightness in his throat that refused to leave. “Memory. Someone in the shop. Nothing to be alarmed about.”

_ I wanted to make sure you were with me,  _ he didn’t say,  _ I wanted to make sure this is real. _

Crowley seemed to hear it anyway. “ _ But… _ ?”

“But I’m supposed to be getting  _ better,”  _ Aziraphale whined, hating the petulance, the childish frustration that bled through. Hated that it had been  _ months _ , and yet his heart still skittered at the thought of being separated from Crowley too long, and the nightmares still came like - well - like demons in the dark, and there was still that tiny, crushing, stupid glimmer of hope and fear in his gut that  _ Someone  _ might still reach out. To smite him, perhaps, or to apologize. Anything but the silence. Anything but not knowing, claiming bravery and self-determination while still walking on eggshells.

He swallowed again, and realized he’d zoned out somewhere far away while Crowley talked on the other end. 

“ _ You  _ are _ ,”  _ Crowley was saying,  _  “I promise you are. I know it doesn’t feel like it, but we’ve never had to deal with healing from something this long before. All the psych websites I’ve been reading say this is completely normal. Remember where you were a month ago? Crying in the Bentley after our huge blowout? _ ”

Aziraphale chuckled wetly. “I believe  _ you  _ were the one crying, dearest.”

“ _ Nuance _ ,” Crowley batted on reflex. Aziraphale couldn’t help but smile. “ _ Anyway, look at where we are no later’n the blink of an eye.” _

“Well. You do make a compelling argument…”

“ _ Tell you what _ ,” Crowley bargained, “ _ I need to drop my suit off at the cleaners before we drive to Tadfield Sunday. Why don’t I leave now, and I can pick you up for lunch right after? Some new places near the Sainsbury's just opened up. Sound good? _ ”

A ghost of a smile brushed his lips. “I suppose I can’t turn down lunch.

“ _ There’s my guy! Leaving now. I’ll pick you up in fifteen - ten if I can push the Bentley past 90.” _

“Reckless demon,” Aziraphale said fondly, “Alright, then. Drive safely. I love you.”

“ _ Love you too, dove. See ya soon.”  _ And he hung up, leaving a shocked Aziraphale listening to the tuneless hum of the dial tone. He pulled the receiver away from his ear, watching it closely as if it had bit him.

Oh. 

_ Oh.  _

Well then.

He smiled.

Though he had known the exact nature of their relationship since that tumultuous night in Oxfordshire, Crowley hadn’t said… _ that  _ yet. At least, not out loud. There had been one night, deep in the darkness and quiet of the bedroom, where he  _ swore  _ he’d felt the letters traced over the skin of his hand as he’d drifted off, but -  _ well.  _

All thoughts of Sandalphon (and any renditions of archangels thereupon) resolutely cleared from his mind, Aziraphale decided on a little reorganizing before Crowley arrived. The Thoreaus had been looking a bit peaky from being left in a sunny shelf for too long - he’d need to switch them out with the Greek erotica section, perhaps, or maybe the Miltons.

_ Love you too, dove.  _

And if he changed  _ those  _ up, well, might as well rearrange the whole ground floor. Aziraphale whistled cheerfully as he started pulling books from the stacks, a warm joy banishing any anxious remnants from before. 

_ Love you too. _

Odd, how three little words could change the course of a day in mere seconds. The dark shadow looming over him for the whole morning had vanished, leaving only a few scant clouds whisping over the sun. 

Barely five minutes into the task, humming softly with his sleeves rolled up to his elbows, Aziraphale heard the door bell jingle once more. 

“We’re closed!” he called back, cheery as one could be while elbow deep in a box of Boccaccio. 

“I’m rather afraid this can’t wait,” the newcomer said, and any cheer he may have felt evaporated in an icy chill. Aziraphale turned around, filled with dread.

Michael stood just inside the doorway, in that neutrally displeased way she had of standing. She tilted her head inquisitively. “Do you have a minute?”

* * *

Crowley had indeed been, as Aziraphale suspected, waiting by the phone for most of the day. The whole bone-cracked stretching and complaints of a headache had been all for Aziraphale’s sake that morning, as his partner had been reluctant to leave without him. While Crowley had originally been against the idea of going back to the bookshop (citing the need for fewer emotional upheavals in Aziraphale’s recovery, and in their lives as a whole), he had decided that if they were going to do it, they’d do it right. 

So for the first few shop openings, Crowley had lounged about on the couch or in the stacks, loafing on his phone or wreaking minor chaos with the few customers that lingered too long. It'd been a long,  _ long  _ time since he’d last glued a rare pence to the pavement, and he’d caught the faint glow of amusement from Aziraphale. He knew his presence, especially the nonchalance he forced into the loafing, put Aziraphale at ease.  If anything started to upset his partner, Crowley was on it in a flash. Neither pesky book hoarder nor heavy-handed writer hoping for ‘inspiration’ in the ancient tomes lining the walls would bother Aziraphale so long as he was around. 

Eventually, Crowley had noticed Aziraphale’s posture loosen up when interacting with the humans that came around now and again. Stiff shoulders slumped, tension bled from his spine, his clenched jaw, until he was quietly humming to Mozart once more as he dusted. 

The demon had even eavesdropped on a short but lovely conversation with one of the neighbors who had dropped in to wish Mr. Fell well on his recovery. The little old lady who ran the textiles shop down the road had brought a basket of admittedly tempting fruit and a sincere smile. Said the whole street had been murmuring over the state of the shop, which turned out to be an odd but important fixture on Greek Street. 

Crowley had pointedly ignored the glassy look in Aziraphale’s eyes after she left, having expressed how nice it was to have him back, and nodded sagely along with the little cough of, “Allergies.” 

He’d broken into a grin as soon as Aziraphale turned his back. 

After that, they’d worked up to getting Aziraphale to mind the shop alone a few hours at a time. Crowley would run minor errands or take a walk nearby, always close enough to come running back if he was needed. This morning had been their longest separation since Tadfield, clocking in at a solid six hours before Aziraphale called.  _ That _ , in Crowley’s demonic opinion, deserved something special. Had to celebrate the little victories when they came.

Crowley leapt out of bed and got dressed with a snap, feeling uncharacteristically cheerful in the bright April sun. He started mentally running a list of all the best cafes for lunch later. A fly buzzed near his ear; he swatted it away. There was a new little Hungarian-fusion place by Golden Square he’d marked down that was at the top of his  _ Spoil Aziraphale _ list. Yes, that sounded like an excellent idea for lunch.

The fly came obnoxiously close to his face again, a kamikaze freefall right into his forehead. Crowley frowned and waved it off again. Or maybe they’d settle in for a nice cup of coffee at a cafe. Some pastries. Perhaps that joint with the crepe cakes Aziraphale was so found off.

Fluid as a river, the demon swiped the keys to the Bentley off the hook on the wall leading to the kitchen, whistling softly. When he turned the corner, he was greeted by the sight of the Lord of the Flies sitting at the breakfast bar.

Still whistling, Crowley spun on his heel and headed back for the bedroom. 

“ _ Nope, _ ” Beezlebub drawled, setting him back on course with a lazy snap. Crowley blessed under his breath as he found himself once again face to face with his former employer.

He stared at them. They stared at him. No one moved to smite the other.

Crowley’s weak grin felt rather like rigor mortis. “Ah. I’m going to go ahead and guess this isn’t a social call.”

“On the money for onze.” They waved their hand, pulling out the bar stool opposite them. “Have a zeat. We have much to dizcuzz.”

They did not seem pleased. They never did, generally, but neither did they seem...overtly in the mood for imminent destruction. Carefully, Crowley took the seat, as it seemed the polite and only thing to do.

Beelzebub pressed their lips together in a facsimile of a smile. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Several excuses for leaving this go for so long include being abroad for a month and struggling with putting anything actually down on paper because this chapter is a lot of...filler? Exposition? Who's to say. But I have large chunks of the next one written and a game plan (and my university might close due to virus concerns so I may possibly have more writing time) so sorry for the delay! Hoping we're back on track by now!


	16. if you can't beat 'em...

“No, I don’t,” Aziraphale spat, venom dropping from each word, “We are most certainly, _definitely_ closed, and I can _assure_ you - “

Michael held up her hand. “Peace, Aziraphale. I bring no ill will to you, nor the demon. I’m merely here to...tie up loose ends. May I?”

She gestured at the worn couch in the backroom. Wary, Aziraphale nodded. He ought to call Crowley. To warn him. Michael’s entirely calm demeanor aside, no good could come from an archangel in their midst. His fingers itched to ring the demon’s mobile, but the phone was behind Michael.

He silently cursed himself for not learning to use the Blackberry from Christmas ten years ago.

It was a testament to the archangel’s composure that she suppressed a grimace as the worn, squishy couch creaked under her weight. Aziraphale took the seat opposite her (where he sat when Crowley dared face him in chess, insisting he use the black pieces, knowing that when Aziraphale played, he played to _win)_. 

Michael pulled a briefcase from the ether. Aziraphale tensed, then relaxed marginally as she began laying stacks of triplicate papers on the coffee table. Enochian gleamed silver on the pages, held together by a white wing-shaped clip.

“I’ve taken the liberty of drafting some employee discharge papers,” Michael explained, mild for the situation yet brusque and professional as always. She did not look at him as she organized the stacks, “As you know, we’ve had no need for such, as termination usually entails immediate termination and transfer to the...Other Side. Until now, that is.”

“I am aware, yes.”

“We can’t very well have you running about as a rogue agent, since _technically_ you are still in the system as - “

“Sorry,” Aziraphale interrupted, not sounding very apologetic, “But are you suggesting that you _don’t_ wish to destroy me?”

Michael sighed, meeting his eyes for the first time. She suddenly looked very much her age, old as Creation, and very, very tired. 

“No,” she said, “We do not. It has become abundantly clear that the best course of action for all parties involved is to cut our ties amicably.”

Aziraphale snorted. “I would hardly call being dragged to Hell, tortured, and forced into making a Renouncement _amicable.”_

That hot, ugly curl of anger burned low in his stomach. Being of love and light aside, Aziraphale was getting _very_ tired of his coworkers barging into the bookshop only to pull the rug out from under him. For millennia, they had viewed him as a pushover, a dunce; poor, naive, stupid Aziraphale, who would go along with the orders and fulfill his duties with blundering complacency. 

Well, no longer _._ He’d learned a thing or two about moral integrity in the previous grueling months. As well as how to stare down a celestial being into cowering in their seat.[1]

“A precaution we deemed necessary after discovering your _dalliances_ with a demon for the past several thousand years,” Michael returned. Her tone was just as brutal, though she frowned at his newfound courage, “A decision some of the higher spheres still agree with, but have since been overruled.”

 _Overruled by who_? Aziraphale wanted to ask, but held his tongue for fear of the answer. 

“And sending a demon to kill Crowley on your orders, explicitly breaking the non-interaction agreement?” Michael blinked in surprise. Aziraphale allowed himself the tiniest, driest quirk of his lips. “I had a suspicion.”

The archangel’s stony expression softened a touch. “That was Gabriel, and Gabriel alone. When your demon banished him, he called a vote for retribution with the other archangels. Having had clear evidence that doing such was against the Almighty’s will, we voted against it. He was far out of line in exacting revenge on his own accord and has been sentenced appropriately.”

“Oh.” Aziraphale swallowed around the sudden lump in his throat. “What - what is his sentence?”

“Forty years’ service on Earth. If I am to be blunt...I should hope the assignment will deflate his ego a touch.”

Aziraphale gave a slow, strained nod. As much as he wanted to see the inherent good and light in all beings, he found himself unwilling to try further with Gabriel. To have the favorable backing of the spheres was a surprise. “I should hope so.”

“Indeed.”

It was - odd, to have this sort of careful, mutual agreement between himself and Michael. For ages, the archangel had largely ignored him, or, upon acknowledging his presence, belittled his efforts on earth. He could not recall a time they had ever been on good terms.

“So,” Michael busied herself with the papers once more, handing him a particularly hefty looking pile. “The representatives of each sphere have collectively signed off on this discharge agreement. I’d like to go through the following sections with you to make certain the terms are clear.”

Aziraphale held the packet by his fingertips as if it were an explosive. “The terms being…?”

“You will no longer be tied to Heaven, but also make no pacts with Hell. In return, you have our solemn word not to interfere in your affairs again. There has been enough needless violence in this ridiculous feud.”

He stared at her, unsure if he had heard right. Michael gestured for him to look at the documents detailing his freedom himself.

So Aziraphale read through it. Twice. Eyebrows raised; jaw clenched firm with doubt.

“You can’t expect me to believe this is a serious offer.”

“Serious as sin. Our respective sides are sick of having to clean up after the two of you. The terror you’ve created in our ranks alone is enough to give HR[2] migraines. _In Heaven. Smiting_ a demon like that - honestly.”

“I hadn’t much of a _choice_ ,” he bit out.

Michael did not deign to answer. A silver pen appeared in her nimble fingers.

“Shall we, then?”

Aziraphale did not answer immediately. He frowned at the paper gripped in trembling hands. It was, to be sure, a well-written, concise, and detailed release form that promised exactly what Michael had said. He would be free of Heaven without the danger of them turning ‘round to attack, destroy, torture, or otherwise maim him. There were no loopholes or fine prints. There were clauses and addendum that took painstaking precaution to ensure Crowley’s safety from the Host as well. To be completely frank - it was the perfect resolution for all parties involved.

There was just one problem.

“Right here,” Aziraphale murmured, swallowing, “Where it says I...I am to give up the title of not only Principality, but also of an angel as a whole…”

Michael’s eyes flashed knowingly. “Surely you did not expect to keep such holy titles and responsibilities?”

“I thought not. But I haven’t - Fallen. Not entirely. So what - what am I?”

And for the first time - Michael hesitated. Head tilted, lips pursed. A flash of concern wrinkled her brow and then was smoothed over. 

“Honestly?” Michael said, “I have no idea. Not my jurisdiction.”

A curl of dissatisfaction wormed into Aziraphale’s stomach. If Michael didn’t know, then there was not a soul in Heaven who did. And Heaven did _not_ like not knowing.

Equal parts disappointed and relieved, Aziraphale nodded. He read through the document one last time, and signed his name - his _true_ name - in silver ink that shimmered faintly with no discernible source of light. He dotted the last _i_ with a vicious stab. He’d expected to feel different, signing over the last traces of his angelic identity like that.

He didn’t.

“Well,” said Michael, clearly pleased to have negotiated the terms so smoothly. She folded the papers back into her briefcase. “That’ll be that, then. I can assure you, this will be the last we meet until the End rolls about again.”

She stood, sticking out her hand. Aziraphale, who could scarcely remember touching _anyone_ before Crowley, much less another angel, took it with some measure of trepidation. Her skin was cold and dry, and he could feel the barest hint of her True Form crackling just under the surface. Michael shook his hand so hard it was easy to imagine how she’d personally tossed Lucifer into the pit.

“Right. Erm. Thank you for...that.”

“Thank you for accepting our terms.” Michael let go. Grey eyes appraised him as they stepped apart, twinkling with some semblance of approval. “I think perhaps we have underestimated you all this time.”

“Oh.” Aziraphale didn’t know how to respond to that. “Right.”

He stood there dumbly as she turned to leave, flexing the hand he let her touch. The door, sensing her imminent departure, unlocked with a gentle _click_ and swung open. The air held a touch of ozone in her wake. Just before she left, the archangel stopped. 

“Oh, Aziraphale?” Michael turned back to look at him with a wry smile. “That was a bold touch with the _towel.”_

And then she was gone with a cheerful chime, leaving Aziraphale alone in the deafening silence of the bookshop. 

* * *

“No.”

“Yez.”

“Uh-uh.”

“ _Yez.”_

“You can’t - “

“I grow tired of your idiozy,” Beelzebub snarled. The sole fly lingering in the airspace around their head buzzed dangerously.

Crowley ignored it all, thumbing through the stacks of triplicate he’d been handed. All in all, it was a staggeringly airtight, cosmically binding document. He’d done his time in HR[3] \- one particular discorporation had displeased Head Office so thoroughly that he hadn’t seen topside for a century - so Crowley _knew_ that the contract he now held was the real deal.

This didn’t mean it wasn’t a lot to process.

“So you’re...you’re really letting me go?”

“All partiez involved have agreed to a one-time releaze of duty for you and the angel. We have agreed to leave the both of you alone zo long az you do the same.”

He frowned. “But Xaphan? I mean, I get he wasn’t under your orders but. There isn’t any, er, recompense for the whole, uh, smiting bit?”

“Xaphan was in direct violation of our non-interaction clause,” Beelzebub growled, and Crowley’s lingering fear of imminent destruction spiked, “I gave you my _word,_ and he broke that by taking orders from that _moron_ Gabriel. HR’s been an absolute bloody _nightmare_. No; the sooner we have our hands clean of either of you blundering fools, the better off we’ll all be.”

Crowley mulled that over. Made a face of general agreement. Flipped to the back of the packet, where his uncovered eyes flicked suspiciously from the page to his boss and back again.  “Says here there’s a cease and desist on my calling myself a demon.”

“You’re not,” Beelzebub said simply. There was a mild undercurrent of disgust in their voice. Disgust...and a hint of Envy. “The only thing you are iz not our problem anymore. You’ve never been a good employee - “

“Ouch.”

They glared at him. “ - but in light of _multiple_ rezent eventz, to continue calling yourzelf a demon would be like calling a gooze a duck. You don’t belong in Hell, Crowley. That much iz clear.”

“Gee, I’m touched.”

Beelzebub handed over a pen with barely tempered contempt. Crowley took one last long skim through the papers, though something told him it was indeed safe to agree. Some of Hell’s best lawyers drafted the document. Best, yet ultimately uncreative. He signed and initialed where necessary. The pen dribbled like oil slick and sparked as he crossed the sigil.

The papers disappeared in a swirl of sulfurous smoke. Beelzebub stood, and in doing so came to a whole head shorter than Crowley. Their handshake was loose and clammy, and they wiped their hand on their pants immediately after.

“That’z that then,” they hummed. An understatement. “I’d zay it’z been a pleazure, but…”

“Likewissse.” He cringed as his telltale hiss began to break through, belaying the accompanied pounding of blood in his ears.

Beelzebub picked up on it. They smiled with a shark-sharp grin. “Remember, Crawley. We _will_ destroy you when the End comes again.”

And then they were gone, leaving nothing but silence and the faint whiff of rotting fruit behind.

Crowley stood there, frozen, for several long, trembling seconds. A sharp, crack-throated laugh escaped his chest, jarring in the heavy quiet of the room. It was not a sound that fit the mood of being fired from one’s job of six millennia, signing away all rights to their identity, and being promised a sure death in the next war. 

But it sounded cold and fresh and fragile, like ice on a lake shattering with the first warm day of spring. So he did it again. And again. Crowley laughed, loud and aching, shards of it sticking in his lungs. He felt wetness on his cheeks and tasted salt.

He wondered if that was what freedom tasted like.

With a slow, deep breath and a heel of his palm scrubbed over his cheeks, the former demon known as Crowley grabbed his forgotten keys on the table and ran out the door.

* * *

[1] Celestial beings in this case being namely Crowley when he got too many ideas about ‘cleanse smoothies’ being good for his recovery.

[2] Heavenly Resources

[3] Hellish Resources

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Coming to you live from quarantine (yep, my school went online til May). This does give me a whole lot more writing time!  
> Thank you to my awesome beta Della for editing this chapter and for coining both Heavenly and Hellish Resources as HR. Also shoutout to those of you who saw that the aforementioned angel and demon being punished were Gabriel and Xaphan :)


	17. far from home

 

Aziraphale stood, staring at the spot where Michael had disappeared, frozen. Ice water could have flowed through his veins for how cold he felt, the nerves and adrenaline sending shaky, sickly shudders over his whole body. Electrified head to toe.

 

_ We did it,  _ he thought, numbly,  _ It’s over. We did it. We’re...free? _

 

Unaware of the action himself, Aziraphale scratched at the side of his arm. The faintest outlines of several eyes glowed under his wool cardigan - the product of an angel pushed near the brink, near enough to the edge to start to lose control, to let the divine wrath break free.

 

Near enough to Fall. 

 

However long he stood there for could not have been any more than the drive from Mayfair to Soho, as he was jolted out of his unpleasant abstraction by Crowley bursting through the same door an Archangel just exited through. A head of wildfire hair swiveled manically until wide gold eyes found him, and then Aziraphale was nearly bowled over by a frenetic demon.

 

“Are you okay?” Crowley demanded, hands patting over his shoulders, his arms and back, looking for injuries.

 

“I’m fine, I’m - “ The rest choked off as the words threatened to overwhelm him. Just as well. As soon as Crowley had gotten confirmation that he was indeed alright, he swept Aziraphale off his feet, whooping joyously.

 

“We did it, we did it,” Crowley was chanting. He’d set Aziraphale back down and now clung to him. Happiness poured off him in waves, strong enough that he could have drowned under them. 

 

Aziraphale’s jaw worked, though no noise came out. He  _ wanted  _ to be happy. Seeing it so openly scrawled on Crowley’s face was a momentous thing, he  _ should  _ have been happy,  _ why didn’t he feel anything -  _

 

Crowley kissed Aziraphale’s forehead and laughed. “ _ We did it.  _ I - I couldn’t believe, I thought we were goners for  _ sure _ . Beelzebub was just waiting in the kitchen and I thought, welp that’s me dead, then. Ha! Who was here? Gabriel? Uriel? Oh, I bet it was Michael, the wanker. What did they say? Did you let them have it?”

 

Silence. He pulled back to look at Aziraphale, eye to eye, seeming to realize for the first time that the other being wasn’t responding. That euphoric grin faded as his eyes scanned Aziraphale’s face. 

 

“Aziraphale?” A thumb swiped across the thin skin under his eye. Aziraphale hadn’t been aware his cheeks were wet until then, “ Dove, what’s wrong?”

 

“I - “ he swallowed. “N-nothing.”

 

Crowley’s voice dropped a pitch, dripping with contempt. “What did they do?”

 

“Nothing! I - I’m sorry. Everything is fine, I promise, I - I - I just…”

 

There was a faint buzzing in his ears, his mind blank with white static. What was wrong with him? Everything felt like too much and not enough all at the same time. The words stuck in his head like honey, like pitch, flowing slowly, gumming up the works. 

 

The world blurred; his eyes stung, filled with salt water. That was so silly of his corporation. 

 

Aziraphale gave Crowley a watery smile. “I - I thought perhaps S-She might yet forgive me.” The words startled him just as much as his companion, whose expression shuttered. 

 

“Oh - oh, Aziraphale, I’m sorry - “

 

And  _ that  _ \- that’s what did it. Because in that one instant, Aziraphale remembered the way his Mother used to say his name,  _ Aziraphael _ , softly chiding and Holy with Her own essence. And he  _ missed  _ it.

 

 He missed Heaven when it was warm and good and safe, missed the pleased smile in Her voice as he was entrusted a sword, the  _ pride _ of it, the innocence of wandering the Garden in awe of each and every of Her creations. Missed the edge of wry humor that had come with,  _ Where is the flaming sword I gave you?,  _ the gentle acknowledgement that She  _ knew _ , and had let him off with that teasing warning. He had lied to Her the last time they’d spoken without ever realizing it would be the last.

 

It was then the finality of what he’d let go of sank in. But then, how long had it been since he’d ever really had it?

 

Aziraphale didn’t realize he was crying until Crowley gathered him up in his arms. “Shh, shh, it’s alright, love. Let it out, c’mon, don’t hold back. Everyone needs a good cry sometimes.”

 

He buried his face in Crowley’s shoulder, clutching the fabric of his vest. His breaths came in short, harsh sobs, hitching so hard it hurt his lungs. Distantly, Aziraphale felt himself being led over to the couch and sat down. 

 

All of his thoughts swirled maniacally, a whirlwind, fleeting before he could fully grasp them. He missed Heaven but he  _ shouldn’t  _ miss Heaven, they all hated him because he’d never been enough, never ever ever, but that’s not what Crowley said, Crowley liked him, oh, bother, Crowley had been so  _ happy _ , and now here he was ruining it, ruining  _ everything _ .

 

And Crowley, perfect, understanding,  _ wonderful  _ Crowley, held him through it. Held him close and rubbed his back and murmured soothing nothings in his hair and let him cry. Aziraphale wanted to be mortified - that such a small thing could break him down after everything they had been through - but he simply didn’t have the energy for it. Not anymore. 

 

Thunder rumbled in the distance. Slowly, Aziraphale calmed from tearing hiccups to pitiful whimpers. Crowley had fallen silent, unsure how to help other than stroking his hair and miracling a soft cloth to wipe his face. They lay half-sprawled on each other, Aziraphale tucked between the demon’s legs. Miserable, exhausted, he fell asleep there, cradled against Crowley’s chest. 

 

He hoped that for once, he would not dream in his sleep. 

* * *

Cold rain sleeted against the windows. Crowley wiped a tired hand over his face, rubbing into his eyes until flecks of color danced in his vision. 

 

Aziraphale lay fast asleep on the couch. His chest rose and fell in smooth breaths, unlike the juddering sobs from earlier. Crowley let the backs of his fingers brush along one plump cheek, still hot and pink from crying. 

 

He had been so certain that they were out of the woods, he hadn’t considered what a formal resignation from Heaven would  _ mean.  _ Crowley wanted to kick himself; he’d Fallen himself. Known what it was like to hope, against all hope, that maybe the Almighty would make an exception in Her Forgiveness. He, at least, had gotten the benefit of millennia to come to terms with it. 

 

Crowley moved as quietly as he could over creaking floorboards. Up the grand spiral staircase and to the left lay the remnants of a flat from the before the bookshop was born. A small bedroom, a kitchen, and a loo the size of a broom closet were tucked behind the bookshelves that comprised Aziraphale’s private collection. Crowley had only been up here once for some reason he couldn’t recall. Not much had changed since - dust coated every surface, turning the whole place sepia. Books piled high and spilled over on the bed, the dresser, the kitchen counters, the stovetop, the toilet seat lid. 

 

The water closet had no window - or perhaps it did, and was too caked in grime to tell - so he pulled the cord to a single lightbulb that swung from the ceiling. Warm, crackly light bathed the room in yellow. 

 

There was a jar of pomade from the early 20th century with a comb on the vanity. Crowley smiled to himself at a fuzzy memory of trying to teach Aziraphale how to calm his raucous curls before giving up entirely. 

 

He ran a rag under a thin stream of water and used it to wipe down the mirror until he could see his reflection. A tired, pale face with dark shadows under the eyes greeted him. After months of looking after Aziraphale, worrying about Aziraphale, it startled Crowley to realize how much he’d been affected as well. A demon could only take so many curveballs in a year, he reckoned, feeling the exhaustion down to his bones.

 

Crowley inhaled, filling his lungs with the scent of dust and lignin and cologne from decades past. When he exhaled, he let his wings unfold from the ether into the mortal plain.

 

Not nearly as striking as Aziraphale’s, but the grey was there all the same. Feathers along the curve of the humerus were the usual ashen shade, fading to that of a storm cloud and lightening to a gentle rain. Crowley frowned in concentration, shifting the delicate muscles up and down. Instead of the soft, silvery glow of Aziraphale’s, his wings glimmered with an oil-slick sheen. Purples, blues, greens, and pinks shimmered faintly as he moved under the light. 

 

Crowley’s chest hurt. He thought perhaps it was the pain of losing some of his infernality, but then he realized he had stopped breathing, and lungs got used to a thing like that after a few millennia. 

 

Satisfied, Crowley folded his wings back and shut off the light. His pulse felt thready and weak as he descended the stairs. Perhaps a nap was in order. 

 

Aziraphale lay still on the lilo, perfectly at peace in the same position he’d left him in. He was mumbling something under his breath, eyelids twitching under the spell of a dream. Crowley reached out to smooth down some of those ubiquitously errant curls down. He hoped whatever his partner was dreaming of, it was something good. 

 

Rain tapped a soothing melody against the windows as Crowley settled into the squishy armchair across from the couch.  _ Just a short nap _ , he reasoned, tipping his head back, _Resting my eyes. J_ _ ust a wee kip.  _

* * *

In Aziraphale’s dream, he stood outside a tea shop. 

 

It looked perfectly quaint, with iron-wrought designs swirling the windows and flowerpots guarding the doorstep. Something about this particular tea shop nudged at him, familiar in a sense he couldn’t place. He wanted to look around at the surrounding shops, but didn’t seem to be able to. Though he knew he was in London. That much he was, somehow, certain of.

 

The tea shop gave off a warm glow of comfort; he smiled faintly, and reached for the door.

Inside, the shop seemed deserted. No one stood behind the counter, and all of the tables were empty. Aziraphale blinked at the rustle of paper. Correction: all but one of the tables were empty. A newspaper sat at the table in the corner, spread open vertically so as to obscure the face of its reader. Its headlines announced the going-ons of Heaven, but also that of Hell, and Earth. All of it was in Enochian. 

 

As this was a dream, Aziraphale did not see anything out of the ordinary in that fact. He did, however, freeze in his tracks as the person (if They could be described as such) addressed him from behind the newspaper.

 

“Close the door, dear,” said the Almighty, casually turning a page, “You’re letting in a draft.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Again, sorry for the delay. I've been really resentful about my own writing for a while...I just want to put this one out. Hope you guys like it - thanks for sticking with the story this far.

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [a will, a way, a wherefore](https://archiveofourown.org/works/20072239) by [DarkPilot](https://archiveofourown.org/users/DarkPilot/pseuds/DarkPilot)
  * [i Fell knowing that you would be there to catch me](https://archiveofourown.org/works/21524452) by [DarkPilot](https://archiveofourown.org/users/DarkPilot/pseuds/DarkPilot)




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